


Arkham Asylum

by the_mythologist



Series: The Iconoclast War [2]
Category: Arkham Asylum (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Arkham (Video Games), DCU
Genre: Angst, Drama, Joker humor, Love in all its forms, Main Character Death, Multi, Redemption, Torture, lots of inmates die, lots of swearing, off screen mentions of rape, questionable sex scene (very late in fic)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:47:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 52,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23741770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_mythologist/pseuds/the_mythologist
Summary: When Batman is unable to attend the fantabulous surprise party thrown in his honor, Joker decides to take control of Arkham Asylum. Why not? It wasn’t like he was doing anything else! And it’s all going just wonderfully, with murder games and power plays, Rogues being beaten near to death, and two surprising supervillians taking hesitant steps into a new romance(!!!) . . . except for the rumors of a mysterious serum floating around, and the annoyingly persistent group of Resistance guards and doctors holding out somewhere on the island.And of course, the fact that Batman was getting later by the day . . . but oh well! Bats was sure to show up eventually, and when he did, Joker had a catty little surprise for him.Ohhhhhhhh, he just couldn’t wait! This would be the best party ever!
Relationships: Joan Leland/Aaron Cash, Joker (DCU)/Harleen Quinzel, Jonathan Crane/Pamela Isley, Pamela Isley/Harleen Quinzel, Selina Kyle/Bruce Wayne
Series: The Iconoclast War [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/919611
Comments: 24
Kudos: 42





	1. Breakdown

**Author's Note:**

> As I said before, this arc of the fic is a huge homage to Rocksteady’s Arkham Asylum game, which is a) one of the best games ever, and b) the game I played copious amounts of when I worked a soul-killing job, a few years back. The entire story began as a question I kept asking myself during my first (and then second, third, fourth, etc) playthrough: What if all this happened . . . but Batman hadn’t been there?  
>  Arc 1 was my answer to why Batman never shows up to the party, but this arc was about those trapped at the ‘party’, many of them unwillingly. Many of them do not like the Joker or his methods any more than Batman does. Many characters are lifted from the series (Aaron Cash, certain guards), and several villains are left off the island if they didn’t play a big part in the FIRST game. Certain themes are twisted, ie the Titan serum, to my own ends.  
>  A lot of the characters/buildings/layout of the island are taken directly from Rocksteady’s Arkham Asylum game, with a few minor additions. Character design is as well, (yessss Mark Hamill!) although I am totally ignoring Jonathan Crane’s voice actor (who I thought was female for the first four interview tapes) and Slutty McNoPants Poison Ivy. My Iyy is wearing pants because why, exactly, would she be not?  
> Lastly, I am taking huge liberties with certain characters and their backstories (Scarecrow, Ivy, among others) because the other theme I wanted to touch on was what I wondered as a kid, reading Batman comics: which is stronger, fear or desire?  
>  (The answer is neither, but we’ll get there by the end.)

**Chapter 1: Breakdown**

  
  


**March 30th, 20xx**

**Gotham**

Excerpt from  _ Gotham Citizen Patriot, _ a small, locally run news agency. 

**CAPED CRUSADER SCORES FULL HOUSE**

Last night was an exciting one to be a Gothamite as Batman finally brought the Joker’s week-long shakedown to a close. The Joker’s mad plan to take over the Old Town District resulted in a rising death toll that finally capped at 32, largely due to a collapsed warehouse that created a devastating domino effect, and a cloud of thick dust as deadly as any toxin, or poison vapour. As there is nothing Batman can do about the shoddy architecture of the Old Town District, his efforts are universally lauded in recapturing the insane clown and carting him back to Arkham Asylum. 

This, on the heels of the infamous Selina Kyle, AKA Catwoman’s recent recapture and the surprising court ruling to send her to Arkham when her stint in the hospital is over, makes for a rather full set at the Arkham “Funhouse.” Now within its confines are the Joker and his lady, Harley Quinn; the Scarecrow, Poison Ivy, the Riddler, Dr. Fries, Victor Zsasz, the Mad Hatter, the Ventriloquist, Prometheus, Hush, Killer Croc, and Two Face, along with a cadre of lesser supervillains. 

It’s an intimidating line up, but not quite everyone is attending the party. The Penguin’s losing battle with AIDS has ensured him a slow decline in an undisclosed hospice, while Bane, Batman’s most physically powerful enemy, has remained quietly in hiding for over a year now. 

Aaron Cash, longtime head of security for the asylum, was less than pleased when faced with the impending reunion. “It’s a f***ing madhouse when they’re all in here!” He exclaimed, all the while batting away recording equipment with the silver hook that replaced his missing hand. “Not that I want them to be free, but the point stands,” he continued. “Half of these goons shouldn’t be here anyway. Blackgate was made for a reason, you hear?” 

The nearly complete Rogue’s Gallery in Arkham makes for a twisted anniversary present for Dr. Joan Leland, a macabre celebration for her decade of working with Arkham’s elite and criminally insane. As well as being one of the foremost psychologists in the field, she has also proven to be refreshingly incorruptible in an institution that fostered Dr. Jonathan Crane, Dr. Harleen Quinzel, and the Arkham family itself. This is no mean feat when one looks at her patient lineup, which reads like a who’s who of Arkham: Poison Ivy, Two-Face, Harley Quinn, the Scarecrow, Mad Hatter, the Ventriloquist, and the Riddler. 

Dr. Leland declined an interview, but we wish her all the best in the coming years. She’ll need all the luck she can get when her life revolves around probing into the minds of Gotham’s supervillains.

  
  
  
  


**June 21st, 20xx**

**Dr. Leland’s office, Arkham Asylum, 3:14 AM**

_ The path to career suicide was a slippery slope,  _ Dr. Joan Leland, Chief Psychologist at Arkham Asylum, decided. For some it began with good intentions; others, an outright lust for knowledge, or power. For her, it had begun with only one thing: wanting to save a friend. Her gambit, had she been able to see it through to the end, had the potential for so much good, and not just within the confines of the asylum. Perhaps that was why she’d been shut down unceremoniously by Warden Sharp? The man ruled Arkham with an iron, if incompetent fist; she should have known that he would sell her out before the project’s completion.

Whatever the reason, she had played her hand and the Warden had called her bluff. She was well on her way to losing just about everything. While some of the details of the project were still unknown to Sharp, including to whom she had already administered the serum, and who it was ultimately intended for _ ,  _ she couldn’t imagine that her part in this would go unpunished. Should she tender her resignation now? Or should she wait for them to find her?

Joan rested her head in her hands. Whatever the warden chose to do to her professionally, it would not be half as disappointing as the loss of opportunity for the serum’s intended recipient. Particularly when, even though it was not developed with any hope for their own improvement, there  _ had _ been marked improvement for those in the first experiment group—Jervis Tetch, otherwise known as the Mad Hatter, and Harvey Dent, Two-Face. Jervis’s anxiety had noticeably lessened, and she’d been able to lead him into several short yet hopeful discussions on something other than  _ Alice in Wonderland. _ Harvey had spent 20 minutes just yesterday talking with her about Rembrandt’s paintings. Duality hadn’t come up once. Good and evil hadn’t even been touched upon. His hands had been on the table, and not once had he reached for his coin.

_ If that’s not improvement, I don’t know what is,  _ Joan thought. 

As for the others more loosely connected to the project, Jonathan Crane had been . . . well, there was never an opportunity to say Scarecrow was being  _ good,  _ but the last couple months had been better than average, at least in terms of mental clarity, and of responding to Dr. Crane, rather than only Scarecrow. Not that the serum had been wasted on him, of course. Of all the people in Arkham Asylum, he was one of the high-profile patients who Joan personally suspected it would do nothing for, along with the Joker, Waylon Jones, AKA ‘Killer Croc,’ and Thomas Elliot, ‘Hush.’

Pamela Isley had shown such promise, however. Since she’d been allotted so much responsibility on the project, she’d shown signs of increased empathy with other human beings, including Joan herself. This wasn’t to say her days as Poison Ivy were over—she still responded better to being called Ivy, rather than Pamela—but it had been a hopeful sign, particularly when like Crane, she had not been exposed to the still-in-the-testing-phase product.

Of course, their improvement could be to some extent coincidence. Eddie Nashton, AKA Edward Nigma, AKA the Riddler (as he so unhelpfully demanded his name be written in his files) had been suspiciously well-behaved for the last month, and he was in no way connected to Joan’s project. In the early stages of planning, she had considered him a promising secondary test subject, after the initial and most important test subject had been addressed. His narcissism had a kernel of vulnerability, after all, and there was perhaps a chance to build on that.

Now that chance had passed, just as had every other.

_ Damn that Warden for an insufferable fool,  _ Joan thought, continuing to massage her temples with her fingertips.  _ How dare he end this project on a whim? I made sure that he understood the good this serum could do!  _

It had to be his political aspirations. If any hint of an officially sanctioned serum was being concocted by the inmates of Arkham Asylum, he’d be laughed out of the ballot box. That, or the man’s megalomania couldn’t handle the tentative successes she reported. It couldn’t have been the recording of the interview session that had been copied.. Not when neither of the patients had even  _ mentioned _ the serum, nor that they were collaborating together on Joan’s project. No, this project must have been kaiboshed by Warden Sharp’s greed or insecurity, glaring character deficiencies when one ran an institution that housed some of the most dangerous criminals in the world.

A knock sounded at her door, and Joan glanced up as the head of security and her longtime friend Aaron Cash poked his head in. His expression was as close to apologetic as it got.

“We’ve got a twenty minute window before the guards switch,” he said quietly. “Bill can’t hold off rounds on the Green Mile long. If we’re gonna go, we’ve gotta go now.”

The clock above the door read 3:20 AM. Joan nodded, and left everything but her keys and cell phone behind in a locked drawer in her desk—wallet, notes, reading glasses, tablet. This meeting wouldn’t take long. 

Clandestine meetings with inmates rarely could. 

…

…

…

Eight minutes later, Joan leaned back in her folding chair, the plastic creaking loudly in the silence that followed her explanation. On the other side of the reinforced bullet, bludgeoning, and pheromone-proof glass stood Pamela Isley, who had paused pacing the length of her ‘cell’ in order to stare at Joan in consternation. 

Joan understood the impulse. She’d be doing a sight more than staring had she been in Pamela’s position, but different strokes for different folks, and all that.

“The project’s called off?” Pamela reiterated. “Entirely? But  _ why?  _ It’s been administered to the control group and everything—”

“I know,  _ I know,”  _ Joan interrupted, back to rubbing her temples. A headache was coming on, and by the feel of it, was going to be a doozy. “Someone told Sharp about the meetings—”

Ivy’s gaze flew to Aaron Cash.

Joan waved her off. “And Sharp referenced the stupidity of recording the sessions. Point that we cannot actually turn off the recording system here aside, that means someone had to tell him, and that someone was the one who illegally copied one of the sessions.”

“Could it have been him? Sharp, himself?”

Joan scoffed. “Please. That man couldn’t find his rear end with two hands and a map. And if he knew what the two of you discussed, he’d had a seizure. All he knows is that if Gotham found out that you and Dr. Crane were having secret sessions, we’d all be out of a job.”

“And he’d be in position to lose the upcoming mayoral election to a toddler,” Pamela bit out. “Don’t try and deny it; this is all about him.”

From behind her, Cash shuffled his feet and murmured something that sounded suspiciously like  _ can’t argue with that. _

Sometimes, Joan felt a little like she was surrounded by super powered children. Even Aaron had a hook for a hand, after that horrible altercation with Waylon Jones years ago. That meant she had to be the adult. “Be that as it may, there’s nothing we can do. The Warden has this half-baked idea that you and Jonathan are going to team up and destroy us all. He’s decided the risks outweigh the benefits.”

“So you’re giving up, then?” Pamela challenged her, looking disgusted. “Just like that?”

Joan glanced back at Aaron and nodded. He brought out his good hand from behind his back and clicked on an anti-listening device, courtesy of Batman a couple years back. They were 95% sure that they’d muted the volume as far as they could, but as the Green Mile couldn’t stop recording information back to the mainframe, it was better to be safe than sorry.

Especially as one of the recordings had been hacked, already. Their use of the anti-recording device would put up red flags, but it was a bit too late to worry now.

Joan turned back to Pamela, whose expression had sharpened, albeit in a distantly approving way. “If I get you some of the product, will you administer it to Harley?” 

Pamela blinked, surprised. “You would do that? If it has any noticeable effect—or if it’s picked up on one of the random drug scans, they’d know it was you who gave it to her.”

Joan set her jaw. “I’m prepared. As long as it doesn’t hurt her, and there’s even a small chance of it working.”

Pamela stepped forward to the curve of the glass. “It shouldn’t be able to hurt her. I know what I’m doing. And Jo—Crane mentioned how stable Jervis has been, of late. ‘Almost impossible to rile,’ he said.”

“Jervis has been more stable during his sessions,” Joan admitted. “But there’s no major change in his psychosis.”

“We knew at the outset it wouldn’t manifest the same way with the control group,” Pamela argued. “There’s no reason it shouldn’t have a more marked effect on Harley, particularly if you can keep her away from Joker, afterwards.”

“I know, I know,” Joan said again, leaning forward in her chair. Really, this was the worst possible night for a headache, yet here one was. “This whole thing was for her, and I’m not backing down now. I’ll take her in for solo sessions, put her in isolation. I won’t let him near her, but I need you to give it to her. You’re right; they’ll know if I introduce something new into her medication. They’re watching me. I’ll never be able to pull it off.”

Pamela nodded with no hesitation. “I’ll do it. If you can get her here, I’ll convince her to take it.”

Relief washed over Joan like an ocean’s wave—bitter and refreshing, all at once. It would not be for nothing, then, even if her career was about to take a dive. “You’ll have to be good for a month—it’s the only way I can get you having a visitor again, so soon after Crane. But Sharp likes the idea of letting the female prisoners socialize a bit more, and because you’re both women she should be allowed into your dome. As for the drop off, Aaron is the only one I’ll trust with this. He can deliver it the night before.” She raised a censorious eyebrow at the lovely inmate. “As long as you promise not to seduce him too badly?”

Ivy’s answering smile was almost fond. Well. For her, Joan allowed.

“I’ll try,” she said wryly. “But his will is almost as strong as Batman’s. I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

Joan nodded and stood, folding her chair behind her and handing it to Aaron. He’d set it back in the guard room on their way out. 

“Joan,” Ivy called out as she turned to go, “It might seem strange to say this, and it’s certainly odd feeling it, but it was an unexpected pleasure to work with you.”

Dr. Leland, head psychologist at Arkham Asylum for only a little while longer, glanced back over her shoulder. “You know, it kind of was,” she agreed, before Aaron Cash gently put a hand to her shoulder and nudged her out of the Green Mile.

…

…

…

Aaron had done quite a bit for her without bitching her out too badly, and Joan was privately impressed. She thought that he’d hit his limit for covert assignations with inmates months ago, yet he’d held his tongue—well,  _ mostly— _ until the project had finally been cancelled. 

Now, however, when they were alone in the guard’s room in the Penitentiary, in the hallway between the Green Mile and the main holding cells—which the guards jokingly called the Great Hall, disregarding the electrified floor—hacking into the computer’s mainframe to cover the last of their tracks, he let loose.

“Are you insane, woman?” He began, with a level of closeness that came from all the years of friendship, and the special position she held as his wife, Letitia’s, best friend since childhood. “Look, I know you got a good rapport with your patients, and believe me I envy you that, but you are not  _ friends _ with Poison Ivy! It’s amazing enough that she has Harley; she’s just playing you!”

“Do you have any aspirin?” She asked instead. The headache was only getting worse, and Aaron had yet to really lay into her.

“No, I do not,” Aaron enunciated, swiveling a little in his computer chair, clicking out of the security feeds that no longer showed them walking into, around, or out of the Green Mile. “Louie would, ask him if you see him. But I am not done with you, Joan. This could be the end of your career, and I only say ‘could’ because the Warden’s head is so far up his ass that he might just miss some of the more illegal aspects of this brouhaha! If someone with two brain cells to rub together finds out—”

“And how  _ did _ he find out, Aaron?” She interrupted. “ _ Was _ it the recording?”

“Of course it was the recording! What else could it be?”

“That’s what I don’t understand, though,” she said, shaking her head. “I listened to all their sessions. And while some of the content is . . . remarkable, really, there was nothing explicit about the project or the serum on that particular night. It was just Pamela and Jonathan talking, and far more profoundly than in any of their usual sessions!”

“That isn’t worrisome enough?” Aaron asked, squinting at her. “You couldn’t get me in Scarecrow’s shrink chair for all the money in New Jersey. Ivy’s nuts for allowing it.”

“So much good could have come of this! Can nothing go right?”

Cash looked at her hands, which were clenched into fists, before responding. “It’s this place,” he said, slightly more gently. “It’s wrong, and it infects everyone who comes here.”

“Not everyone,” she said, smiling tiredly down at him. “We’ve been here how long, and haven’t lost our minds.”

“I am missing a hand,” he pointed out. “And in letting Scarecrow and Poison Ivy work together, some might argue that you have, in fact, lost your mind.”

“They’re brilliant chemists,” Joan argued for the umpteenth time. “And Pamela has a personal stake in it succeeding. If it could save Harley . . .”

“Then it’ll all be worth it?” He asked, incredulous. Before she could respond, he sighed heavily and stood up, pushing the computer chair a few inches back. For a moment he loomed over Joan—she was not a tall woman, although her mien was intimidating—his hook resting gently against the desk. His right hand rose to his waist before he abruptly lowered it, as if it had risen without his being aware of it. 

“Don’t answer that,” he said, looking away from her, down at his hook. “I know you and your crusade to save the world.”

That brought a smile to her lips. “Some people call me Batman,” she snarked, and it drew an answering snort from Aaron.

“Don’t I know it,” he muttered. He cleared his throat before saying, “Look Joan, this might not be the time, but while I’ve got you alone, there’s something that Letitia and I have been meaning to talk to you about.”

Joan blinked. Aaron’s sudden awkwardness set off alarm bells in her head. “What’s wrong? Is it Daniel?” She asked, worried for their charming, impossibly pleasant 18-year-old son. 

(Neither of his parents were inherently happy people. God alone knew where Daniel found his cheery outlook on life, but his smile was wide and infectious, and his optimism was practically a force of nature. This had thoroughly mystified both his parents and Joan for the entirety of his existence, but barring the thought that he was some kind of changeling, it was probably for the best.)

“What? No, no. Danny’s fine. Actually, with that full-ride scholarship to play football at Michigan State he’s on the freaking moon. This is, uh. About something else.” He tore his gaze from his hook to examine the wall just behind Joan’s left shoulder. She was tempted to look behind her and see what held his attention, but more interesting to her was what could possibly have Aaron Cash, the most senior, respected, and capable member of Arkham’s security force, looking this awkward.

With a gusty sigh, Aaron tried again. “Joan, we—Letitia and I—we decided—”

The familiar, heart-stopping sound of Arkham’s alarm system ripped through the early morning quiet. Joan’s heart hammered out a fearful beat even before the expressionless, automated voice system informed them of the catastrophe at hand.

_ Warning, security breach in level B1. Warning, security breach in level B2. Warning— _

Aaron swore. “What the hell is going on out there?” He fell back into the computer chair and began typing out as rapidly as he could with one hand. Every security feed he pulled up showed escaping inmates, running joyously out of their cells. 

_ Warning, security breach in level C1. Warning, security breach in level C2. Warning, security breach in medical level A1— _

“A1?” Joan said, and it was like a punch to her gut. “Oh my god—this isn’t just Intensive or the Penitentiary. They’re breaking out all over the island!”

“Shit!” Aaron exclaimed, punching at the keyboard with hand and hook, now, desperately pulling up command functions. “I can’t stop it. Someone’s blocked all the security codes.  _ Shit,  _ this is a takeover and I don’t have the tech skills to—shit, I can’t even remote activate the Bat Signal. How the fuck is  _ that _ blocked?”

“They planned for everything,” Joan breathed, horrified. “Can you reach anyone? The Commissioner?” She brought her hand down to the mouse to click the shortcut on the desktop—first the yellow bat signal, which refused to engage, and then the pixelated representation of Gotham’s city crest, which would act as a direct line to Commissioner Gordon. 

Nothing happened at the first click, but when she double clicked it again, a square of text appeared on the screen. 

_ Riddle me this: what do you get when you remove a security guard from his  _ everything?

_ Answer:  _ wholesale slaughter.

“Oh shit,” Joan swore. “It’s the Riddler.”

The radio at Aaron’s hip crackled to life. “Sir? Anybody? Can you read me?”

Aaron snatched it off his hip and up to his lips in a well-practiced motion. “Burlow, where are you?”

Eddie’s reply was frantic. “Outside the Mansion, sir. Zach and I just stepped outside for a minute, I swear! But then the alarms went off, and now our keycards won’t work on the door. We can’t get back in!”

_ Warning, security breach in secure level Alpha. Warning, security breach in secure level Beta— _

“What do we do, sir?” Eddie Burlow asked, and then came Zach Franklin’s voice, “Into the bushes, kid, when the inmates get out what do you think they’re gonna do?”

Aaron wore the most furious expression Joan had ever seen on him when he ordered, “Listen to me. You two stay together, and you make your way to the old bunker on the east side of the island. Zach knows where it is. Override code is 10161901. Like the date, October 16th, 1901. Get in there, and change the code, and then don’t let anybody in unless you know for  _ sure _ that they’re not an inmate. Got it?”

“Y-yes, sir,” Eddie stammered. “But there’s something you should know. We saw a body fall from Warden Sharp’s office, down into the water. They didn’t come back up.”

“ _ Fuck.  _ Was it the warden?”

“Hard to tell but . . . it was portly, sir.”

Aaron swore again, louder this time, but Joan had ears only for the next announcement. 

_ Warning, security breach in level D4. Warning, security breach in level D5— _

C and D Blocks were Penitentiary, and D5 was only a level away from the Green Mile, and beyond that, Extreme Incarceration. It was bad enough that Ivy and Dr. Victor Fries, (he, the only current inhabitant of E.I.) would be released, but the one level between D5 and the Green Mile, D6, housed the inmates who were so gone in their delusions they were no longer participants in therapy. If the inhabitants of D6 were freed, the island would be overrun with lunatics, and it would be utter, total chaos. 

“What do we do?” Joan whispered, her blood long run cold. There had been breakouts during her time, and plenty of supervillains staging individual escapes, but nothing on this scale. Never before had the  _ entire island _ been set free in the small hours of the night with no way to call for help.

Aaron gave her a searing look, the type of look a man might give the devil before he sold off his soul. Before he could say anything, however, a familiar, terrifying sound echoed over the loudspeakers, cutting through the warning alarms: a wild giggle that grew into a full-bodied laugh, the type of laughter that sent grown men to quivering under their beds.

The Joker was free.

That was enough for Aaron. “Come on,” he said, tugging her from the guard room. 

“We’re leaving safety, why?” She protested, as she followed in his wake.

“Won’t be safe long,” he said grimly. “Either the psychos or the supers will find a way in. Don’t fight me on this, Joan. We got one chance at this.”

“Chance to do what?” She cried out as he dragged her faster, breaking into a jog. Just behind them, the psychotics screamed and wailed, gibbered and gnashed their teeth. Whoever had control of the asylum hadn’t let them out with the others, at least not yet. It was the only reason she and Cash were still alive. 

That, and the fact that the inner doors were not on lockdown. It was likely to give the inmates a better chance at escaping, but it also allowed them to traverse deeper into the Penitentiary, back into the Green Mile. 

When the door opened, Pamela threw herself at the glass. “What’s happening?” She asked, and if she were connected to the breakout then she was the best damn actress Joan had ever met, because she seemed more concerned than smug. “Has Sharp lost his mind?”

Aaron only let go of Joan when the door closed behind him. “Sharp’s dead. Riddler’s got control of the facility, and if that giggle is anything to go by, he’s working with the Joker. They’re not gonna let you out, Ivy. They’ll let you die in there.”

Ivy threw herself against the glass. “No, please! Let me out!”

Cash exhaled hotly. “I will . . .if you promise to protect Joan.”

“What?” Joan exclaimed. “Are you insane? You were just yelling at me about losing _ my _ job; they’ll throw you in prison if you do this!”

“What about yourself?” Ivy asked, eyes locked on his, gauging his sincerity.

Aaron’s face shuttered as he looked over at Joan. 

“No, we go together,” Joan prompted him. “Whatever happens.”

“Protect Joan,” he said, turning back to Ivy. “And I’ll let you out.”

_ Warning, breach in Medical block A3— _

“I don’t want Joan dead,” Pamela said simply. “Especially not at Joker or Riddler’s hands. I’ll do my best.”

That was not really answering the question, and Aaron was more than smart enough to recognize this, but it was more than Joan thought Ivy would give. 

“I’m gonna regret this,” he muttered as he swiped his master keycard through the security console. As the dome split apart he looked over at Joan once more, and although she felt a good bit like smacking the stupid right out of him, the misery on his face stayed her hand.

The ground beneath them began to rumble. 

“Joan, I—” he began, but before he could finish, another much louder voice boomed over the loudspeakers. 

“Hello and good morrrrning, everyone! This is the Joker with a  _ very important announcement _ . I’m sure you’ll all be very excited to hear that I’ve taken control of the island. Ooooooh, I have plans for each and every one of you, and let me tell you: they’re gonna be a blast!”

The floor beneath their feet was still vibrating, and distantly, Joan was concerned. At the moment, however, she was far more concerned about the fact that the Joker had taken control of Arkham Asylum.

“Let’s start with our first order of business, shall we?” He continued in a reedy, sing-song. “I’ve got a  _ great  _ game for you all—an ice-breaker just so we can  _ really _ get to know each other. It’s something you’re all sure to like: by sunrise, I want all members of the security force to be eliminated! Points are awarded for how many you kill, how highly ranked . . . ooooh, I’m so jealous of the man who kills Aaron Cash! Or, well, maybe not. I’m pretty sure Croc wanted him, and he won’t take kindly to his prey being snatched away!”

“Well, shit,” Aaron muttered, in what Joan felt was an entirely apt summation of the recent turn of events. 

The Joker giggled like a machine gun. “Seeeeee? I told you you’d like it! Ah, but escort all the doctors to the Medical Facility, would you? I want them alive.” His voice turned dark. “We’re going to  _ need them.” _

The tremors in the floor were now so noticeable that Joan stumbled forward. During Joker’s announcement, Pamela had stepped out of her personal prison, and caught her before she fell. “Time to go,” she prompted. Joan, who was less affected than most from her pheromones, still gasped when Ivy took hold of her wrist. It was a little bit like being set on fire, if by that she could mean that every nerve ending in her body suddenly came alive, in a dangerous mixture of pleasure and pain. 

Before she could further catalogue the experience of being touched by Poison Ivy, what Joan could only classify as ‘huge honking vines’ shot up through the floor. Green mottled throughout with purple,, thick and veiny, three were noticeably larger than the others. All heaved huge blocks of concrete into the air, debris showering down around them. Joan was tugged away from Aaron, choking on the thickly settling dust. In the darkness and the chaos, he was lost to her immediately. 

“Aaron!” She cried out, but before he could respond there was a crashing pain on the side of her head, and darkness set in. The last thing she heard before succumbing to unconsciousness was Joker’s maniacal laughter playing over the speakers. 

  
  
  


**June 21st, 20xx**

**Botanical Gardens, Arkham Asylum, 9:34 AM**

**Day 1**

If she didn’t hate the Joker with every atom of her genetically-altered being, Ivy could almost admire the execution of his plan. Sharp overthrown, the asylum overtaken; within six hours the entire island was under his control. From what she had learned through her babies and his boasting, the Riddler had hacked the island’s mainframe about a month ago, and several times since in order to enable this morning’s coup. He now held full control over the island’s communications and security measures, and answered only to Joker. 

He wasn’t the only one of the Rogue’s Gallery that had aided the Joker. Scarecrow had supplied and administered the toxins that had flooded the Mansion, along with sections of the Botanical Gardens and the Penitentiary. This left the doctors and medical personnel easy to extract and take prisoner, and anyone who had hidden or been ignored was now dead from prolonged exposure to fear or laughing gas. 

On a more prosaic level, White Shark and Black Mask had allied themselves and their goons with the Joker, giving him additional manpower to corral the other gangs into obedience, if not strong-arming them into one of their crews outright.

Nearly three-quarters of the inmates had been freed, excluding only those the Joker had special plans for; were too dangerous or impractical to be freed (such as herself and Victor Fries), and the worst of the lunatics. In keeping with Joker’s initial demand, nearly every single member of the security force had been murdered, along with the janitorial staff. Their bodies could be found around the island in varying levels of dismemberment, ranging from the mundane to the truly inspired death tableaux. Their fate was shared by the two cooks that remained overnight. They were slaughtered by the very men they had fed every day for years. 

A few of the doctors had been murdered in the initial excitement, but most had been dutifully herded over the Medical Facility. Joker’s regime was bound to be violent, and even in the throes of his madness, he knew there would be a need for someone to heal them. Ivy had a harder time determining their fate than most of the guards. There were simply not as many of her babies on that part of the island. Over the last few years she had concentrated her efforts on growing and strengthening the plants on the east side of the island, particularly as the Mansion gave her such scope to work with. 

From them, she knew that no one had stopped the Joker. No one, apart from the dead guards and one dead doctor, had even tried. And, as communications had been cut off from Gotham and the world at large, no salvation could be immediately expected from the GCPD.

Batman did not come to save them, no matter the island-wide belief that he would.

…

…

…

The second thing Ivy had done after being freed was to make her way to the Botanical Gardens, where she could set up a stronghold in the Greenhouse. It was clearly not where Joker had directed the majority of his attention. Only the emergency lights were on to guide her way, but Ivy did not need them. Her babies would direct her steps. Classical music still tinkled lightly over the PA system, and the bodies of those felled by Scarecrow’s fear toxin hadn’t been removed. Some were still clinging to the last tendrils of life, twitching and frothing at the mouth. Mouth pursed in distaste, Ivy stepped over them, recognizing that all were beyond her ability to hurt or help. 

Her own evolved biology spared her anything other than a moment or two of concern when faced with Scarecrow’s toxin. The same held for Joker’s laughing gas. It was probably why he didn’t like her any more than she could stand him—men feared what they couldn’t control. 

_ Most men,  _ she privately conceded to herself. Aaron Cash had shown incredible fortitude in choosing Joan’s life over his own; throwing himself back into the chaos of a prison break rather than the assumptive safety Ivy had offered. And Victor could be perfectly civil when not in the throes of madness, and/or grieving his precious, deceased wife, Nora. Every other man she knew needed control over  _ something,  _ in one way or another.

It was a good thing she was an unrepentant misanthropist, and could stand, let alone care for, very few individuals. She would have been incredibly lonely, otherwise.

Speaking of . . . Ivy reached down and caressed a rare lily which bloomed a bright white in the murky greenhouse. It was time to learn where her self-styled best friend, Harley Quinn, stood in all this. 

Exhaling deeply, she let go of her higher processes, that which kept her human, and let herself drift downwards until she was almost more plant than human. Now she could feel her babies in a way no other living being could. They were green and vibrant and alive, and shone so purely that they filled her heart with ineffable joy. She connected with them in a way deeper than words, and could only catch snatches of imagery and meaning in what they unwittingly witnessed.

Ivy flit from one image to another, seeking out Harley. Across the island, guards clustered in small groups, or larger throngs, depending on their affiliation. Some mutilated dead corpses, others terrified living doctors. There was quite a bit of social posturing, and fights to the death to solidify the shifting hierarchies. On the other hand, a few were in the kitchen, getting drunk and cheerfully raiding the cupboards. 

There were larger predators on the island. Tweedledee and Tweedledum played listlessly on the see-saw in Arkham North, and Ratcatcher lurked in the bushes, following his small, furry friends. Firefly sat in the ruins of the old crumbling building near the gate, tinkering over his equipment. At the far edge of western side of the island, Prometheus sat on the dock, meditating quietly as the sun beat down on his white hair.

None of this was what she sought—she had to look deeper. She threw herself into a barrage of images, only hesitating when a flash of platinum blonde caught her eye, and the vague feeling of  _ sister, family, friend, love,  _ caught her heart. There was Harley, prancing about in garishly colored mini-skirt, waving a semi-automatic at a horde of loyal Joker followers. Ivy couldn’t hear what she was saying as her babies didn’t understand human speech, but she understood their way of communication. Harley was in her element, holding sway. Joker liked to let her lord over his men, particularly in the beginning stages of a plan, or when he and his unholy charisma were needed elsewhere. And elsewhere felt like a meeting? Party? War council? Held soon, within the next hour. Where? Ah, the Mansion, of course. Now that Joker had control of the island, he’d demand only the best for himself . . . and perhaps a few of his followers, when he cared to remember them. 

A quick glance around her mansion ‘spies’ showed that masked men were already airing out the mansion, clearing the air of all the devastating toxins. It would take quite a while to make it completely livable, but those he was inviting to the party were all hardy or canny enough to survive exposure to the lingering traces of Crane’s fear toxin. 

As was she, of course. And while she had little interest in Joker’s ‘Board Meeting,’ nor in the posturing that would follow this island takeover, she did have a marked interest in seeing Harley.

Her friend had some medicine to take, after all. 

All she had to do was find it, first. 

…

…

…

The surviving inmates were nearly all male, which was no surprise. Save for Harley, Selina, and herself, the few female inmates were nowhere near powerful, terrifying, or well-protected enough to survive. Within the span of just a few hours, they had either committed suicide, been beaten and/or raped to death, or disposed of in other ways. Only one of those fates still had the power to touch her, and Ivy found her mind skipping past the most horrifying of scenarios. She had a job to do—several jobs, actually—and to reflect on female weakness would not help her accomplish them. 

That 99% of the island was now male made it laughably easy to traverse the island, even when Joker’s goons knew very well that he hadn’t let her out of her cage. A whiff of her pheromones had all the low-level henchmen following her whims, and in no time at all she found herself pushing open the doors to the Head Archivist’s room in the Manor, interrupting a meeting that was, by the looks of it, still in its early, awkward stages.

All within turned to look at her, the majority shifting away in response to the low-level cloud of pheromones she wore like a cloak. The Joker sat at the head of the table, of course, feet propped up on the table, dressed in his iconic purple and green suit. Where he had gotten it, Pamela didn’t know, but that he and Harley were dressed in their usual attire while the rest of them were still dressed in their prison clothing only served to emphasize the difference in power between them all. 

At his right hand stood the Riddler, who froze mid-preen at the sight of her. He still wore an air of pride at his hacking prowess, although he shifted away from her more quickly than the other men. For all his twisted, narcissistic brilliance, he was the most fragile of them, and he never forgot it. 

On the Joker’s left was Two-Face; poor, beleaguered Harvey, who could no sooner face his demons than he could himself. He wore an expression like a thundercloud, and Ivy surmised that the island takeover was a surprise to him, leaving him and his men a little out of the lurch . . . although he still had enough personal eclat—or history with Batman, one never knew with the Joker—to be invited to the meeting.

The others at the table held less interest for her. Black Mask was clearly pleased, which was an event in and of itself, while Hush was stern and attentive. Great White Shark would no doubt be as boorish as usual, and Firefly was a twitchy mess. She would have to keep her eye on him, and make sure he didn’t burn too many of her babies before she arranged for him to have a little ‘accident.’ 

Off in the corner, checking on crates that ostensibly held his toxin and/or something else even more diabolical, was Scarecrow. He alone had not reacted to her entrance, unless tilting his head just slightly in her direction counted. Wearing his chemical-filtering mask, he had as little to fear from her as she did from him . . . as long as the mask didn’t slip. 

That she couldn’t see his face displeased her. Not only had their last few conversations been particularly engaging, she liked to be able to read where the wind blew with him. Not seeing his reaction to her entrance was a disappointment. As it was, he merely watched her out of the eyeholes of his mask, tapping his syringe-tipped fingers on his thigh.

Harley sat on Joker’s lap and had been interrupted in mid-squeal. Something about being allowed to ‘kiss her Mr. J whenever she wanted’ and Ivy tried not to sigh.  _ There was no accounting for taste _ , she supposed, but there was a flare of relief at seeing her friend alive and unharmed. 

“Red!” Harley squealed, bouncing up and down a little in her excitement. “You’re here! Oh, Mr. J, I  _ knew _ you’d invite her. You just didn’t tell me so it’d be a surprise!”

“Anything for you, Harl,” the Joker crooned, but when Harley leaned in to give him a loud kiss on the cheek, the Joker directed a decidedly less friendly look Pamela’s way. 

“So, you decided to attend after all,” he drawled, pretending for no one discerning’s benefit that he’d invited her in the first place.

Ivy lifted her shoulder in a dainty shrug. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

The Joker’s eyes narrowed. “And uh, how  _ did _ you manage to slip your cell? I’m  _ sure _ Eddie-boy here didn’t touch that half of the Penitentiary . . .”

The Riddler began to babble, asserting his innocence. Pamela let him blather on a minute, knowing it would only annoy the Joker. Finally, when Edward’s face began turning an unflattering reddish shade—blushed when he was nervous, poor boy—she smiled sultrily and admitted, “A very obliging guard let me out. He was so worried that I might die in there.” She winked, keeping her gaze split between Harley and the Joker. “I rewarded him for his troubles, of course. He’ll never worry about anything ever again.”

The Joker swung his legs off the table, dislodging Harley from his lap. With a squeal, she hit the floor.

“See, that’s the thing, Pammy,” he drawled, his tone turning vicious, and his gaze sharp. “I don’t believe you.”

Tension settled over them all like a blanket. Even Harley did little more than grumble as she got to her feet. Most of the men in the room froze, worried about the fallout that would inevitably occur in a battle between two high profile heroes. Scarecrow, who stood about equidistant from both of them, leaned forward off his crates. Whether he would help or hinder either of them she didn’t know, but she found herself reluctant to find out just whose side he was on.

_ It’s not yours,  _ she tried to tell herself.  _ He’s not your friend. Nor do you need him to be. You have Selina and Harley, what do you need a third for? _

“His body’s in the Green Mile, if you care to check.” And there was indeed a body in the Green Mile. Ivy had made sure of that. She hadn’t found Cash’s, and hadn’t cared enough to look, so she dragged the first dead guard she could find into the room, and stuffed the masterkey that Cash had dropped when her babies’ had torn through the concrete floor into his pocket. Her story would hold up unless someone pulled out a fingerprint kit.

After a moment more of stifling silence, in which she was painfully aware of Scarecrow, so still on his feet, leaning neither one way or the other, the Joker smiled. He slapped his thigh, making Black Mask startle.

“Well, if you say so!” He exclaimed. “But uh, are you sure you wanna be here?” He asked a moment later, a look of faux consideration on his face. “No plants here, and uh, you might get bored. This is a people meeting. For people. About people things.” He pulled a face. “Ewwww, right?”

Scarecrow settled back onto his boxes. Her ongoing peripheral awareness of him made her remember something Harley had told her once, something he’d mentioned to her, offhand and on one of the rare stints when they’d run into each other in Gotham. 

_ The Joker is by no means as susceptible to your friend as the rest of us, but he is still male. I think if Doctor Isley flattered him a little, she might get more than she’d expect. _

That in mind, Ivy smiled coquettishly. “Tell you what—leave me to my babies, and I don’t care much what you do.” She tapped her finger to her chin, as if she was thinking something over. “And if you send over Harley to play every once in awhile, I might just start liking you.”

Harley’s mood shifted from grumbly to euphoric. “Oh, Red! It’s been so long since our last ladies’ night! Think of how much fun we could have!” She began listing ideas off on her fingers. “We could stay up late, tell stories, do our nails, trade clothes . . .” Harley winked, devious and sweet at the same time. “Ooh, we could even share a bed!”

Joker, as well as several other men in the room, was obviously charmed by the idea of two beautiful women having a sleepover . . . among other things. He waved her in, and just like that, she was part of the inner circle. Ivy sauntered in and took a plastic folding chair that had been pushed into the corner. Moments later, Harley came and plunked herself down in  _ her _ lap, giving her a thank you smooch on the cheek. 

All the men in the room tried not to watch, whereas she tried not to be unduly gratified that Harley was currently more fond of her than she was of the Joker. That would change as quickly and as often as the wind did, and there was no point in getting her hopes up that someday, Harley would choose her and the few others that loved her over  _ him. _

“Now, where were we?” Joker asked, in a tone that signified that he truly had forgotten what they’d been discussing before Ivy barged in.

“Our jobs,” Shark prompted him. “Remember, I’m running the Penitentiary, now?”

“Ohhhhh  _ riiiight,”  _ the Joker said. “Yes, yes, I remember now. Sharkie you’re running the Daycare. Mask, you’ve got the sickos in Intensive. Johnny, Tommy, I know you’ve both been eyeing medical for as long as you’ve been here . . . and you’ve both been doctors here! Aw, what the hell. You both get Medical! Split it down the middle for all I care, but I don’t want to hear any squabbling!”

Scarecrow and Hush glanced at each other. After a moment they nodded to each other, neither wanting to concede control, but not secure enough in their positions to fight each other for it. 

At least, not in front of Joker.

“What do you want done with the doctors?” Hush asked.

“Oh, nothing yet,” the Joker admitted. “But keep ‘em around. They’ll be useful soon enough. Hippocratic Oath, and all that.”

“Do you have all of them?” Black Mask asked.

“Most,” the Riddler answered instead, as eager to please as a puppy. “There’s still a few we’re looking for.”

“Like Dr. Leland,” Harley piped up. “Poor Joan, I always told her that this place would be the death of her.”

Ivy said nothing, but was secure in the knowledge that no one at this table would find Dr. Joan Leland. At least, not without her say so.

“Let’s see, who’s left?” Joker asked himself. “Ah, I know. Lightning Bug, I want you on guard duty—and by that, I mean I want you chasing down and setting fire to any security personnel we’ve happened to miss.” Joker mused before continuing, “Hatty and Wesky are watching my special prisoners . . . Clayface is doing what he does best . . .Eddie’s my right hand man . . . Zsasz is off killing indiscriminately because I think that’s funny . . . Harley’s my girlfriend, and that’s a full-time job, you know . . .” 

His eyes brightened as they fell on Two-Face. “Harrrrrvey!” He exclaimed. “Almost forgot about you. Now I’ve got a special job for you—you’re gonna love it. I want you and your men to take over the kitchens! My men need feeding, after all. I suppose everyone else does too, but we all know the hierarchy around here, don’t we?”

Two-Face nodded, but very carefully said nothing. Ivy suspected that Joker was looking for someone to make an example of, and it was most likely to be Harvey. There was a good chance he’d blow his top before this was all over—being assigned the most menial labor Joker could think of was obviously an insult—but for now, he managed to hold his tongue.

“And I’m King Joker, obviously,” Joker finished, sounding a little disappointed that Two-Face hadn’t displayed any anger. “Frankly, I’m excited to begin my reign. I’ll get around to telling everyone the rules eventually . . . ooooooh, I can’t wait for the inevitable carnage! Now, did I miss anyone?”

_ She _ missed someone, Ivy realized with a start. Several someones. Fries wasn’t here, although that could be explained by lack of a cold-suit. Nor was Killer Croc, although with how bad things had gotten with him, as of late—three orderlies dead, and one nurse several dismembered in the past two weeks alone—that was no surprise either. Fries was in Extreme Incarceration and Croc down in the sewers, and it was likely that was where they’d stay until someone found the will or a way to let them out.

Jarvis, Wesker, and Zsasz were off doing Joker’s duties, apparently, but most importantly, Selina wasn’t there. She had scoured the island for her, but couldn’t find either her or her body, which meant one of three things: either she had managed to find a way off the island pre-takeover; had drowned in the sea; or was being kept somewhere her babies couldn’t reach.

None of the options filled her with much confidence, particularly as she suspected it wasn’t option 1. 

Ivy aimed for an amused voice and asked, “And what shall I do?”

The Joker grinned lecherously at her. “Stand there and look pretty. Also, you might as well run the Greenhouse. Let’s give your plants a quota on killing, hmm? Three men a day? That sound  _ fair?” _

She made a show of considering it. “If I get to see Harley three times a week?”

Joker shrugged. “Deal! Hell, see her more. You probably like seeing her more than I do!”

Harley stiffened in her lap, a look of affront crossing her face. “Puddin’!”

Joker rolled his eyes. “It’s a joke, relax!”

Two-Face made to stand. “Well, if that’s everything—”

The Joker’s expression morphed from genial to mean in bare seconds. His voice was dark and dangerous. “Siddown, Harvey. I’m not done yet.” Clearing his throat, when he continued his voice pitched back up into his normal range. “Now, there is  _ one more thing.  _ I’ve heard  _ rumors _ about a special science project taking place in Arkham, right below old Sharpie’s nose! Something about a special potion . . . truth serum . . . liquid explosive?” He stabbed an inquisitive finger into the air, determinedly. “Oh, it could be anything, but I mean to find it! I own Arkham, now, and everything on it is  _ mine. “ _

He spread his hands wide, fixing them all with a beaming smile. “So, if anyone here knows anything, now’s the time to come forward! Otherwise . . . things are going to be  _ unpleasant _ for you.” He tittered when no one volunteered any information. “Not to say  _ I  _ won’t enjoy it. Hell! Hold out then! I’ll have more fun when  _ I break you.” _

Apart from raising a single, disinterested eyebrow, Ivy kept her expression still, bored. She absolutely did not look over at Scarecrow, although she very badly wanted to. He hadn’t already told the Joker everything? He was clearly in the upper echelons of power; why had he kept that information to himself? Did he mean to help her? Or did he want to use their nearly-finished product for his own gain?

She needed time to think, and to plan. “ _ Now _ is the meeting over?” She asked, affecting boredom. “I need to get back to my babies.” 

Clearly she was not the recipient of Joker’s suspicions as he merely waved her off. Harley hopped off her lap, skipping past Hush, Back Mask, and Firefly to launch herself back at the Joker. 

She hesitated at the door and glanced back over her shoulder. Here went nothing, but she might as well try. “Oh, and Harley? Selina’s not on the island, is she? Because I have some past issues to discuss with her . . .”

Harley sat upright and turned to Joker. With artless innocence she asked, “Oh no, Selina’s here! Mr. J, you invited her, right? She’s one of us, you know.”

Ivy could  _ hear _ the evil pleasure in Joker’s response, and she fought down a shudder. “Oh, never fear, Harls. I’ve been in touch. She’s doing a  _ special  _ job for me . . .”

  
  


**June 21st, 20xx**

**Extreme Incarceration, 3:19 PM**

**Day 1**

  
  


Selina Kyle woke with a throbbing pain at the back of her skull, a fuzzy dryness that coated every inch of her mouth, and an ache in her left calf, of all places. While she had no idea where she was specifically, even without opening her eyes she knew she was in a cell. She was in Arkham, after all, and that only afforded her so many opportunities. Currently, there was cool cement below her cheek, and an eerie quiet that was so unlike her usual cell on the women’s level, cordoned off in Intensive Treatment just to keep them away from the male patients. Wherever she was now, there was no bustle of doctors or unruly patients, no echoes of security protocol, no annoying PA announcements every five minutes to assuage Warden Sharp’s raging ego.

Where on earth could she be that was so quiet? She had to know. Selina cracked one eye open, and quickly closed it. Regret for her curiosity set in immediately, and satisfaction was doing exactly fuck all to bring it back. 

_ Fuck, fuckity fuck fuck fucken’,  _ Selina thought, mouth too dry to start forming sounds.  _ I’m in Extreme Incarceration. _

The cell itself was maybe 18 by 12 feet, far larger than the usual accomodation in Arkham, but when one was in the larger equivalent of a cinder block, it was hard to feel good about it. The walls, floor, and ceiling were solid cement, although there was a 1.5 foot square window on the door. Overhanging the right wall was a cement ‘cot’ covered with a thin mattress, two blankets, a flat pillow, and nothing else. In the far left corner, there was a small drainage hole. It was large enough to stick two of her fists in, but little else. The faint smell of human waste told her its purpose. 

They didn’t trust her with a bucket to piss in, which was unfortunate because she could have wreaked havoc with one. 

Selina groaned. She was beginning to remember what had happened to her, although the bludgeoning at the back of her head barred total recall. Last she could remember, she had been minding her own business in her usual cell, waiting for Taylor, her favorite crooked orderly, to bring her some baseball cards that she would use to trade José, one of Two-Face’s men with a serious baseball fixation, for three paintbrushes and a couple of drawing pencils, swiped from his Art Therapy class.

What she was planning to do with  _ those _ was truly ingenious—Firefly would never see it coming, and then her escape plan was almost halfway completed—but her long-range plans were abruptly derailed when the doors at the far end of the cell block surged open, and five of Joker’s goons, masked and everything, brazenly stepped through the doors like  _ they _ were in charge, rather than the doctors. The other women in the block with her (those that were awake, at least) began freaking out, which was an appropriate reaction. Selina, who had only a passing acquaintance with appropriate reactions to horrifying situations (and had enjoyed a lot of sex with Batman  _ in costume _ due to this) was less so.

“You boys looking for some company?” She purred, pressing herself against the bars. All she needed was for them to get close enough . . . She was by no means at her most seductive, with her unflattering orange jumpsuit and greasy skin. Even her hair had been cropped short, so she couldn’t strangle herself—or more likely someone  _ else— _ with it. Still, she had to try. Joker was clearly breaking out, and as she was on fairly decent terms with him (at the moment, at least) she hoped he’d sent them here to spring her.

She was wrong. 

“Get the cat. Leave the others,” the head clown ordered. As his four underlings approached her cell, his tone turned vicious. “He has  _ plans _ for her.”

“Well, shit,” she muttered. “Whatever happened to villains helping villains?” There was no time for quips after that. She was out of practice, and her ankle was, while healed, still weak. The clowns opened her cell while ignoring the cries for help from the women around them, and rushed her cell. She did her best, and managed to take out three before the last got in the blow to her head that knocked her unconscious. 

And then she woke up here. Selina sat up carefully, checking herself for any aches and pains other than her leg and her head. Nothing else gave her any trouble, and even her clothing was left totally undisturbed. Joker’s men had taken no liberties, and while that was a good thing, that was also a worrisome thing. Why would Joker kidnap her but not rough her up, drug her up, or even  _ feel _ her up, and then leave her in one of the E.I. cells?

_ Bruce,  _ Selina thought tiredly, answering her own question.  _ He’s going to use me to draw out Batman.  _

That being the case the Joker would undoubtedly hurt her, but not until Bruce was in a position to suffer from it. That he hadn’t done so yet meant that Batman wasn’t on the island, and wouldn’t be for at least 12 hours. Joker had never taken a hostage more than half a day in advance, he was far more fond of giving Bruce 2-3 hours to save someone, and increasing the odds of him failing.

Knowing that didn’t exactly help her place what was happening to her, now. How many hours had it been since Joker had (apparently) enacted his takeover? Was his takeover complete, or would Cash and his men be along to set her free soon? Who else had sided with him? Who else was a pawn? If Joker was truly in charge, no doubt Harley would prance down here to do his bidding, and when that happened, Selina was going to squeeze every drop of information out of her flighty friend. 

For now, she had to figure out a way to escape, and she suspected that no amount of baseball cards were going to help her. 

…

…

…

...


	2. Under New Management

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Pseudo-science ahead. Suffice to say the serum I am outlining is the stuff of comic books, and I am no chemist.

**Chapter 2: Under New Management**

  
  
  
  


**June 22nd, 20xx**

**Arkham Tunnels, 10:18 AM**

**Day 2**

  
  
  


Joan Leland surfaced slowly, luxuriating a little in that halfway place of sleeping and dreaming. Against her fatigue was murky panic and a sense that something was wrong. This was not the time or place for languid naps. It was not safe for her to sleep, not when the Joker had taken control of the island—

She woke in a rush as she remembered. She sat up quickly, bashing her forehead against something hard enough to send her back down immediately. Bright blobs of light swirled in front of her eyes, and vivid starbursts of pain made it impossible to think, or do anything other than breathe shallowly and try not to pass out again.

Eventually, when the worst of the pain had passed, she was able to take stock. She had hit her head on the low ceiling of . . . a cave? Tunnel? She didn’t know where she was, but it was clearly not part of the asylum that she knew. Taking deep, steady breaths, she tried to figure out where she was, and what had happened after Ivy had promised to help her. She remembered being torn away from Aaron, and being hit on the head by some falling debris. Yet she also remembered coming to once before, probably because Ivy had used her plants to carry her, and the feel of thick vines wrapping around her appendages was not what anyone wanted, ever. 

Joan had no more than opened her eyes before Ivy glanced back at her. “We’re not there yet, Joan,” she had reprimanded her. “Best to sleep a little longer.”

“Let me down!” She had struggled to no avail. Ivy had frowned, sighed, and then stepped close to her. Flattening her palm in a parody of a blown kiss, she had pursed her lips, and blew off a fine layer of powder that had seemingly formed from Ivy’s skin. Once Joan had a lungful of the stuff, she had slipped into a stupor and remembered no more.

_ Ivy had learned some new party tricks _ , Joan realized. The sex pollen everyone knew about, but she hadn’t realized that Ivy had engineered a sleep powder as well. What else could have her unconscious for—she checked her watch, wincing at the date—for more than 24 hours? 

In an abandoned tunnel, no less. Belatedly remembering that Killer Croc was exiled to the tunnel system underneath the island, Joan got moving in a hurry. She had to get the hell out of here before Croc smelled her. 

One of the ways was blocked, however. Ivy had called up huge vines that trapped her on one side of the tunnel. Joan set off in the opposite direction, hoping there would be a way out, some sort of identifying marker that would assure her this wouldn’t be the prison in which she slowly starved to death . . . but there  _ were _ no identifying markers, she admitted after stooping along the tunnel for more than a quarter mile. This was not part of the tunnel system proper. There were no signs, no pathways, there was barely enough room for her to stand upright. This tunnel was dug by hand, or shovels at the best, and there were no lights to guide her. Only the flashlight on her cell phone kept her from walking straight into the walls. 

_ Where the hell am I?  _ She wondered. There was no way Ivy had gotten her off the island, but how could there be another set of tunnels separate from the paths used by Killer Croc? Unless they weren’t on the grid, or made by official means . . .

“Oh, shit,” Joan realized aloud. “This is how everyone escapes off the island.” Or at least their  _ cells.  _

Everyone but Killer Croc, who to her knowledge had only ever escaped with the help of other villains, or holes drilled or blown straight down to the sewers. This was not much of a relief. She had no idea where the tunnels led, nor how many bolt holes connected with the passageway. Running upon the Riddler, Scarecrow, or heaven forfend, Victor Zsasz in a dark tunnel with absolutely no way to protect herself was just as terrifying and far more plausible. 

She increased her pace, stumbling in the dark with her arms outstretched. At times she crawled, at times she moved forward nearly blind as her cell phone’s flashlight randomly went out as her cell phone battery slowly inched down to 0%.

It was at 2% when she registered the change in barometric pressure. There was a cool draft of wind in the tunnel, and while she didn’t know whether she was headed north, south, east, or west, she was fairly sure she was headed upwards. A hundred more yards and she could see well enough to put her cell phone away. Yes, there was a faint, blueish light up ahead, courtesy of some glowing species of fungus that grew sparsely on the walls. It illuminated the rusted iron ladder leading up to a trapdoor.

Joan hesitated, looking up at it. Where it led she had no idea, nor who would be on the other side of it.  _ Salvation or damnation,  _ she thought, and she had no way of knowing until she went up there and tried to open it. She couldn’t stay down here forever, so, wrapping her lab jacket around her bare hands, she pulled herself up the rickety, rust-laden ladder, hoping her weight would not cause the rungs to break and send her hurtling back down to the floor.

The rungs held, but when she tried to open the trapdoor it was locked. The circular hatch wouldn’t give no matter how hard she tugged, and so she resorted to a desperate measure—she knocked.

When no one replied, nor did the trapdoor open, she tried again.

“Is anyone there?” She called out, pitching her voice low. Whoever was on the other side of the hatch— _ if _ anyone was on the other side of the hatch—she didn’t want to reveal that she was a woman. Not straightaway, at least. Joan permitted that she wasn’t thinking straight, but she was hungry, tired, and scared out of her mind, and her planning wasn’t the best when she didn’t have her glasses on.

“Hello?” She tried again, but was interrupted by the groan of the hatch as it was thrown upwards. The surprise was so great she almost fell back down the ladder. When she realized there were two semi-automatics pointed directly at her, her hands went slack in surprise and she did.

She let out a girly squeal as she fell down the hole, and the breath was knocked out of her when she hit the hard ground. Between desperately gasping for air and expecting a hail of bullets at any moment, Joan was too terrified to take a good look at the men aiming the guns at her. Thus when she heard someone land on the ground directly beside her, she did her best to scramble away, terrified.

“Joan! Joan, calm down!” A familiar voice ordered her. “It’s me. You’re safe.”

She rose up on her elbows to see Aaron Cash standing above her, hand and hook raised defensively. “Aaron?” She breathed, completely amazed. “You’re alive?” She thought she’d seen the last of him when Ivy separated them, and hadn’t allowed herself to think about it since. It was too painful to contemplate when she needed to direct every ounce of her attention into escaping the island. 

He extended a hand and she took it. “I’ve been here longer than most of the inmates,” he said as he pulled her up. “I know this place like the back of my hand.”

“You mean your hook, sir?” One of the guards wielding a semi-automatic offered. Joan was relieved to see it was no longer pointing in her direction.

“Can it, Eddie,” the other guard up above, William North, said. 

Joan was glad of their presence on many levels. Not least because had they not been there staring down at them from the lip of the trapdoor, she might have done something foolish, like throw her arms around Aaron.  _ It was a reaction entirely born of the alleviation of fear,  _ she told herself. She wasn’t the only one prone to such a thing, apparently, because Aaron was still holding her hand, gripping it tightly like she was going to slip away.

“So Ivy kept her side of the bargain?” Aaron said quietly. “You don’t know how worried I was that she wouldn’t.”

“She has some sort of sleep powder,” Joan said. “She used it to keep me unconscious so I don’t exactly know how we got to the tunnels, but I feel as if I’ve traversed half the island.”

“You probably have,” he said, letting go of her hand so that she could reclimb the ladder. “You’ve gone from the Penitentiary to about 50 feet from the front door of the mansion. Jesus, I can’t believe she left you on your own, down here.”

“What was she supposed to do, keep me in the Greenhouse?” Joan asked as she cleared the lip of the trapdoor, taking Eddie Burlow’s hand as he helped her up.

“Probably not as safe as being here,” Eddie said, his kind voice at odds with his riot gear. 

“Where is here?” Joan asked, blinking as she adjusted to the dim light of the small, almost cylindrical room. There was a thick metal door not five feet ahead of them, covered in moss, and it was clear they were still underground.

“The bunker,” Aaron supplied, hoisting himself up without help. “Welcome to the last safe place on the entire damn island.” 

Bill North stepped up to the door and brushed aside some of the greenery that masked the door, revealing a rusted mechanical apparatus. It looked something like a cross between a safe dial and monster’s teeth with square pegs that had to fit just so into metal slots. Both the combination and the appropriate positioning were needed, and even then it took all three men to open the door. It was a better defensive position than the security room in the Penitentiary, Joan allowed, but there was a frisson of fear when she walked through the doorway. 

This was the last line of defense, and it could easily be their tomb.

The bunker was about 40 by 20 feet in total, and made up of three rooms: the largest was the first unto which the door opened. In it was a table and several chairs, a rack for guns, and lockers of dated protective gear and rudimentary weapons. Several crates of canned food were kept there, a generator hummed in the corner, and there was an impressive array of gasoline cans stacked between the weapon lockers. There was an old Soviet-era microwave sitting on the ground near the generator, and several guards sat around the table, opening cans of food with their knives.

Off to the right was a small hallway that led to a bathroom that was dominated by a water storage/filtering tank, a toilet, and the smallest shower Joan had ever seen. Beyond that was the bedroom, where two twin sized bunk beds were shoved, leaving only an eight inch space to navigate between them.

The guards all spun to face them, and those with guns reached for them automatically. They relaxed when they saw who had entered, and one stood to greet her.

“Joan!” Dr. Stephen Kellerman exclaimed. “Oh, thank goodness you’re all right!” He pulled her in for a quick hug, a surprising move from her most reserved colleague. When he pulled back she could see the fear etched in the lines of his face, and the skitter of fear in his dark eyes. 

“It’s a relief to see you too, Stephen.” And it was. Stephen was, while fairly unsociable and prone to anxiety attacks, one of her more esteemed colleagues. Although better suited for research than patient interaction, he was thorough, empathetic, patient, and tried his hardest to be kind, which was a rarity on the island. His successes tended more towards abstract studies than his own patients, but Joan would never forget how he had, along with Aaron’s help, done an ‘end-run’ around Jonathan Crane once—playing on Stephen’s obvious fear of Crane to maneuver him into a position where he was infected with his own toxin, and thus defeated at his own game. 

Crane had been transferred to her shortly after, and while she waited for him to try something similar on her, he hadn’t yet. Biding his time, no doubt. Or perhaps waiting for this revolution. 

“How did you escape Joker’s men?” She asked.

He nodded at Jackson and Javier, two of the younger guards in the room, before taking a few steps back. He had always been skittish about touching women, and falling under Ivy’s thrall a year or two back hadn’t helped matters. “My car wouldn’t start this morning, so I had to take a taxi here. I had an early shift the next day, so I decided I’d just sleep on my couch, rather than pay the taxi fare back home. The alarm woke me, and I ran into Jackson and Javier, and they got me to the bunker. How did  _ you  _ escape?” 

“Ivy,” she admitted, watching his wince. 

“I made a deal to free her if she saved Joan,” Cash clarified, his tone curt. “And while I’m hoping that doesn’t come back to bite us in the ass—”

“Oh, it’s gonna,” Zach Franklin muttered, sitting at the table, resting his head in his hands. “That woman is nothing but trouble.”

“I think we’ve got larger issues on our hands,” an older guard named Raoul pointed out. “Joker’s worse than anything on this island.”

“Croc,” Javier offered.

“Scarecrow,” a guard named Mike piped up, a moment later.

“Ok, ok, let’s leave the who’s who of Arkham baddies for later,” Aaron broke in. “Let’s get Dr. Leland settled, and then maybe she’ll have information that’ll help us.” 

Stephan offered her his seat, which Joan gratefully took. Usually she was all for gender equality, but that wasn’t after traversing the entire damn island by way of underground tunnels, apparently. When a guard named Steve gave her a water bottle and a can of baked beans, fresh from the microwave, she found she was ravenous. She ate and drank carefully, however, knowing that eating too quickly would make her sick. The men talked quietly while she ate, and only when she was finished did she realize the oddity of her being the only female in the bunker.

“Were none of the female guards on duty?” She asked. “Maria? Alex? Jen?”

Bill North and Louie Green exchanged a tight-lipped look. “Maria and Amanda were on duty tonight, I know that for sure,” Louie finally said. “Probably three others in the women’s wing. That was one of the first places the male inmates broke into.”

“There’s no clear way from the women’s section to the bunker. They were bottlenecked. They didn’t make it,” Aaron said, firmly. “ _ None _ of the women did.”

Joan’s hand fell forward, her spoon clattering onto the tabletop. “Oh, Lord,” she whispered. Her hands felt as if they were weighted down with lead, otherwise she would have crossed herself. Raoul did so for her, and watching him, Javier’s hand twitched as if he’d almost done the same. 

“You, Ivy, and Harley may be the last three women on the island,” Stephan said. “You need to be incredibly careful, Joan. Even though Joker called for the doctors to be spared, we’re not sure if Gretchen or Sarah or Penelope are still alive. They might not be able to help themselves if they get a hold of you.”

Her blood chilled. As was her general approach to fear, she became angry. She approached the situation head on. “My head is going nowhere near the sand, Stephen. I will fight with the rest of you. I will not let that man win.”

Aaron shifted, and Joan had a feeling that were they alone, she’d be getting an earful. As it was, Eddie broke in, with his soft eyes and gentle concern. 

“Fighting’s not really what we’ve been doing, Doctor Leland,” he said. “I mean, there’s only twelve of us not counting you and Doctor Kellerman, and only five guns. We’ve all got tasers, but they only help us against maybe one or two prisoners at a time.”

“We were thinking guerilla tactics,” Zach explained. “But defending the bunker is the highest priority. We can use the tunnels, but no one opens the door leading to the mansion cemetery.  _ No _ one.”

Joan nodded. “Who else knows the bunker is here?”

“Nobody, now that Warden Sharp’s gone,” Bill said.

“But what about blueprints? There has to be something like that on the island.”

“As far as I know, even the warden didn’t know about ‘em,” Aaron replied. “Only I did, and I stashed ‘em in here two years back after Croc’s escape attempt. We’ve been studying ‘em, trying to memorize all the tunnel locations and where they lead, but it’s slow going. Some of them have caved in, and some of them lead to places that are currently inaccessible.”

“Scarecrow gassed parts of the island,” Jackson explained. “Joker, too. Brian was hit with it. We’re hoping he can sleep it off—”

“He’s still twitching. Too much might have got into him, already,” Zach muttered. 

Joan took a deep breath. “Ok. So we have hiding in the bunker, stealth runs for food and information, guerilla strikes for . . . what, revenge? A way off the island? And then what?”

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. Joan had a feeling this was what they had been discussing earlier, and that they hadn’t come to a conclusion.

“Wait for Batman?” Stephan offered, hesitantly.

Aaron shook his head. “I can’t get anyone on the mainland, and I’m afraid to keep trying. Riddler’s taken over the communications mainframe and he might be able to trace where our signal is coming from. And uh . . .” He trailed off momentarily, shifting his feet. “About two hours ago a supply ship came in, docked at the harbor. Joker’s got inmates wearing our uniforms and the delivery went off without a hitch.”

“Bat signal?” She ventured.

“All the way on top of the Clocktower,” Raoul said. “There’s no way to get there. Not even on a suicide run.”

“Oh, shit,” Joan breathed. “No one’s going to know for days. Weeks!”

Aaron met her gaze, his expression resolute. “We’re gonna have to save ourselves.”

  
  
  


**June 23rd, 20xx**

**Arkham Greenhouse, 8:09 PM**

**Day 3**

  
  


_ Life under Joker’s regime was, in some ways, not very different than the old regime, _ Ivy thought. For the most part, things went on with an unexpected normalcy. Meal times were kept the same, although the difference it made when men were chained and tranqed versus when they were free to run amok through the mess hall was obvious. Beyond that, however, inmates sat and unconsciously arranged themselves next to others who followed the same leader as they. Half the room at any given moment consisted of Joker’s boys, their clown makeup jarring in the fluorescent lighting. There was always a table or two of White Shark or Black Masks’s men, and Two-face’s boys always sat nearest to the kitchens. Even Riddler had a table of his spies; clever, twitchy little rats that were always looking for the next juicy secret with which to barter their continued safety. 

The cafeteria was early on designated a safe zone, where gang boundaries were done away with, and personal squabbles outlawed. This was due to Harvey and his boys who, for the first few days, shot and killed anyone who made too big a commotion. By dinnertime on the second day, most inmates had learned that the mess hall was neutral territory. Two-Face did not care which Rogue’s power you were under. He had his coin, and a love of order. That was all. 

In other ways, it was very, very different. The Joker had taken control of the loudspeaker, and updated the entire island on a variety of nonsensical and often frightening ideas whenever he had them. Harley tuned in occasionally with a more bubbly variant. There did seem to be a theme—Joker knew there were guards left on the island. Food was being stolen, and at times, guns, medical supplies, and clothing as well. Men were turning up dead, and not all could be accounted for by gang wars. 

Rewards were given out for those who showed up with a freshly dead guard. As far as Ivy could tell, having overheard men talking about it near the Greenhouse, only one had been caught so far after the initial rush of murderous mayhem. She could only hope he hadn’t been found in the tunnels, and thus would not lead, however roundaboutly, to Joan. 

There were also rumors of experiments going on in the Medical Center. Men were uneasy about it, even though those experimented on were, to date, only the most deranged lunatics. Ivy had little trouble imagining what was happening there. Between Hush’s surgical brilliance and Scarecrow’s mad desire to drive everyone insane with fear, it wasn’t difficult. 

Ivy stayed well away, not wanting to see what Crane had reverted back to. She only hoped he wasn’t using their compound. From her perch in the Greenhouse, her hand drifted down to a poisonous plant, and, lovingly stroking it’s flat, veiny leaves, she allowed herself to remember.

  
  


**_October 5th, 20xx_ **

**_The Green Mile, 4:30 PM_ **

**_(9 months prior to takeover)_ **

_ Dr. Joan Leland had first come to Ivy with the proposal for the compound on a rainy day in October. Ivy knew something out of the ordinary was going on when she was attended not by Maria Andrade, the senior most female guard in Arkham, but Aaron Cash. He lounged against the back wall of the Green Mile, watching carefully as Joan set up a plastic folding chair, and took a seat. _

_ “Good afternoon, Pamela,” Joan began. _

_ “Joan,” Ivy offered in return. She didn’t like pleasantries all that much, but civility did mean something to her, and Joan was always polite.  _

_ “I’d like to try something different, today.” _

_ “No therapy then?” Ivy asked, leaning her body against the glass.  _

_ Joan shook her head. “I’d like your expertise on a project I’m working on.” _

_ That was intriguing. Ivy hadn’t been allowed anything other than the most standard therapy sessions ever since she’d seduced Doctor Stephen Kellerman a few years back. Joan had been her doctor ever since, and while respectful, their sessions had been bland. This was new, and therefore interesting.  _

_ There might even be the possibility of escape.  _

_ “I’m listening,” she purred. _

_ Joan gave her a serious look before beginning. “I’m developing a chemical compound that enhances independence and cuts ties with individuals who are abusive. I’m hoping for increased empathy and connection with kinder individuals as a positive reinforcement to seek out healthier relationships. I’d like your input, and if possible, your assistance on the finer details of the compound.” _

_ Ivy blinked. That . . . was not what she had expected. “You’re creating a compound?  _ You?”

_ Joan gave her a small, half grin. “Well, I’m not the premier chemist here, but I can mix things together at an elementary level. It’s when it goes beyond simple creations that I get stymied. I’ve got all the avenues of research all planned out, and have been collaborating with several leaders in the field who have been incredibly helpful in their own right, but the trick is the application—too much empathy with the wrong individual will only see them worse off than before. It’s why something like this hasn’t been made before, at least, not successfully.” _

_ In a world of fear toxin, laughing gas, and lust pollen, an empathy serum was somehow the most surprising of all. “And you think it’s possible now?” Ivy had never heard of such a thing, nor could she immediately imagine how it could be done.  _

_ “I’m more than halfway there,” Joan stressed, keeping eye contact all the while. “This is a reality, Pamela. It can be done, and with your help,  _ will _ be done.” _

_ Ivy was still trying to understand how it would work, exactly. “So it enhances independence and promotes empathy, all at the same time?” _

_ Joan grinned. “It also promotes mental clarity, at least in the short term. In a way, it makes you quite clinical, distancing you from your emotions, but then makes the positive connections twice as strong. It’s not just making one cold to those who torment them, Pamela, it’s strengthening the bonds with those that help them.” _

_ Pamela grew cold just listening to this. Was this some sort of trick to separate her from her babies? “Who is this serum for, Joan?” _

_ Joan looked her dead in the eye when she admitted, “Battered women, primarily. And men. People who know their relationship is unhealthy but can’t summon the emotional willpower to get out.” She leaned forward, enunciating clearly, “I’ll be blunt. This is for people like Harley.” _

_ “Harley! Why would someone like you care about Harley?” _

_ Joan gave her a no-nonsense look. “Oh, was being friends with her in university not enough? Seeing her fall under the Joker’s spell and being helpless to do anything about it while we were colleagues not enough either?” _

_ “That was a long time ago. People change. Your serum isn’t going to magically turn Harley back into the girl she used to be.” _

_ “It’s not supposed to. The periods of mental clarity don’t last long enough to affect the moral system, even if taken for prolonged periods.” _

_ Ivy leaned back, confused. She was very, very good at knowing when people—women, in particular—were lying to her, and Joan was in complete earnest. “Then why give it to her?” _

_ “Because she’s in an abusive relationship, Pamela, and if she stays close to the Joker, she’s going to die!” Joan exclaimed before sighing, and lowering her voice. She rubbed her forehead before admitting, “Look, I know what you’re saying, and you’re right, I can’t make her turn away from a life of crime. But I can and will do everything in my power to get her out from under the Joker’s thumb. If this saves her, it’ll be worth it. If it goes on to save other lives, it will be worth everything.” _

_ For a long moment, Ivy observed Joan. She’d never seen the tough doctor so emotional, which was interesting because emotional meant vulnerable, and vulnerable meant opportunity. Also, this project was right up her alley—she  _ hated _ the Joker and his hold over Harley. She knew better than anyone what Harley suffered under his control, and that so much of it was by her own choice. If Harley could  _ choose _ to leave the Joker once and for all, Ivy could protect her. Ivy  _ would  _ protect her, and that meant she was very interested in Joan’s scheme. _

_ Ivy’s gaze flickered over to Cash, who watched with a disapproving air. Clearly, he did not like whatever was happening here. That meant that Ivy probably would. _

_ “I’m listening,” she admitted. _

_ Joan sat up a little straighter. “As I said before, I’ve worked through the initial stages of testing. Theoretically it could work, but I need help on the finer points, and the synthetics . . .” _

_ Ivy laughed, not unkindly. “You’re asking for lab work? You’re a fool if you think they’ll let me out of my cage.” _

_ Several sheets of paper were held up to the glass. Ivy read them quickly and was unable to mask her surprise. “You got clearance for that? How?” _

_ “By setting up a temp lab in Extreme Incarceration.” _

_ “And by putting your job on the line,” Cash muttered, but both women heard him.  _

_ “I’ll be worth it, Aaron,” Joan chided him. _

_ Ivy was more amazed it was happening at all. “Sharp is allowing you to do this? Warden Sharp, the narcissistic dunderhead?” _

_ Joan sighed. “I told him it would rehabilitate you.” _

_ “And when it clearly does not . . .?” Ivy asked, honest to a fault.  _

_ “As long as I get the compound, I’m willing to deal with whatever comes next,” Joan shrugged. “Believe me, it won’t be the worst mistake made by a psychologist, here.” _

_ That was true, although Ivy had only heard rumors about Dr. Jonathan Crane’s tenure here, and then Dr. Jeremiah Arkham, after that. “Do you have any of the findings with you? I could look at them now and let you know my initial opinions.” _

_ Joan patiently held up what information she had on hand to the glass while Ivy read through them, more carefully than she had the agreement to let her out of her cell in the dead of night, supervised by women at all times, and only to E.I. and back. She was surprised at the coherency of Joan’s idea on paper, as well as some of her initial attempts. She could definitely see areas of growth, as well as where she would choose to work on to improve the efficiency of specific areas of the project, but there were so many synthetics in play and not enough bio-chemical elements . . . _

_ “I can definitely help with this, but the amount of synthetics may be beyond my ability to manipulate. I hesitate to bring him up, but have you considered approaching Dr. Crane with isolated aspects of the project?” _

_ “Absolutely not,” Joan said without hesitation. “Pamela, he’s the last person in Arkham I want knowing about this project. He’s dangerous.” _

_ “Not to me. His toxins don’t affect me.” _

_ “That’s the least dangerous part of him,” Joan argued. “Do you understand how brilliant he is? The only thing that keeps him from breaking out every week or working over the guards the way Joker did Harley is that he loses his goddamned mind as the Scarecrow. When he’s lucid, he can and will destroy you.” _

_ Ivy pursed her lips. While she knew his reputation as a brilliant psychologist was well-deserved, she’d never had the opportunity to see him use it in person. Her interactions with him were largely with his cackling alter ego, Scarecrow. The few times they had interacted otherwise he was quiet, cold, reserved . . . and with all the energy of a coiled spring, waiting for the slightest chance to tear one down.  _

_ On the other hand, Harley had a removed fondness for him. He’d been one of her professors during her time in university, although Joan would have been just a little too old to have taken his infamous class on Fear and Anxiety. He allowed Harley to call him professor, in and out of Arkham, and while Harley took it in stride, Ivy thought that was interesting.  _

_ Most importantly, however, he was one of the most brilliant chemists she knew, and the creation of his fear toxin would make him more valuable than any other resource. “We need his brain, Joan. He could have fixed a lot of these isolated problems for his fear toxin.” _

_ “Pame—” _

_ She held up her hand. “I understand your reluctance to approach him. But if I can get him to agree to assist me on this project, what would that be worth? Keep in mind I highly doubt either of us will be able to finish this compound without him.” _

_ Joan’s body posture and expression grew cagey. “Besides samples of the compounds to use on Harley? What more do you want?” _

_ An idea crystallized in her mind. She wanted it, and more than that, it would solve a long-term problem Joan hadn’t mentioned. “I want a chance at the Joker.” _

_ “The compound won’t work on him. I doubt there’s anything to work  _ on.”

_ “You misunderstand me,” Ivy said, her voice a low purr. “I want a chance to kill him.” _

_ “Jesus fuckin’ christ,” Aaron Cash murmured. “Now you’ve gone and done it, Joan.” _

_ Joan leaned forward and mouthed, so she wouldn’t be picked up by the tapes, “Done.” _

_ Ivy blinked, surprised off balance for the second time that conversation. “You can’t mean that,” she whispered. _

_ She raised an eyebrow. “Can’t I?” _

_ “This would cost you more than your job!” Ivy continued, quietly.  _

_ “I’ve come to terms with that,” Joan admitted in a murmur. “I hate him more than you know. He’s a mind-raping, abusive son of a bitch, who turned one of my friends into a simpering child, desperate for his attention and the chaos it creates. Harley’s created her own persona , and she’ll take full responsibility for her actions as a criminal, but I cannot forgive him for enthralling her so that she takes all his abuse and thinks it’s love.” _

_ These were all things Ivy had thought before. These were her sentiments exactly when it came to Harley’s relationship with her ‘Mistah J,’ and for a moment Ivy empathized so strongly with Joan it made her dizzy. Barring Harley, she had not connected with another human like this since her change. She had not thought she’d be able to connect with anyone  _ other _ than Harley, and her laughing antics, beautiful smile, and fundamental optimism that even the Joker could not stamp out.  _

_ And here was Joan at the opposite end of that spectrum—serious, law-abiding, structured, and physically as dark as Harley was fair. Perhaps their brilliance connected them? Or their incisive observations? Harley was a trained psychologist still, even when she tried to forget it. Maybe it was that which made Pamela feel as if she could trust Joan, could perhaps even rely on her. She reminded her of Harley, except she had Harley’s best interest at heart . . . something Harley herself had forgotten. _

_ “I can’t allow you that, Pamela,” Joan said loudly, for the tape’s benefit. “Either you accept the terms, or no dice.” _

_ “I’ll need to have an opportunity to talk to Dr. Crane about all this,” Ivy said, an idea unfolding. “I still think he’s our best chance to make this work.” _

_ “He won’t agree if you use your pheromones on him. He doesn’t like being trapped or manipulated. Particularly by women.” _

_ “No, bring him here,” Ivy said, her idea branching out details like some of her beloved vines. “I have an idea.” _

  
  


**June 24th, 20xx**

**Extreme Incarceration, 2:37 AM**

**Day 4**

Selina had spent about three and a half days in extreme incarceration (by her reckoning) and she was beginning to understand how Bane’s vaunted focus was such a big damn deal. Particularly as they were only feeding her twice a day, and on the days when it was Jervis . . . well, she was staring at the ceiling hallucinating bats and kitties for hours, again. 

He hadn’t been by today, however, (it was Wesker, and she hated that twitchy little shit. Totally worth eating the sandwich he’d thrown into her cell off the floor because she’d given him the finger) and thus she was bored. Dutifully, she went through her physical exercises (the cells were a bit bigger, she gave them that, and there was plenty of room to stretch out in) and tried to carry on awkward conversation with Maxie Zeus, who’d been thrown in here with them last night. He was currently sleeping, so the conversation was pretty one-sided, to say the least. Victor ignored her as he always did, largely because he was a total party pooper. Even when she tried to talk about Batman in bed, he managed to ignore her. She was almost impressed, if only because mentioning the size of his package (and she’d measured it, to Bruce’s weary dismay) generally had men exclaiming in envy, shock, or disbelief. 

(Women too, but they tended to be more envious of  _ her _ , rather than him.)

The boredom was going to get to her eventually. The hunger and thirst already was, but the loneliness and lack of stimulation was just as dangerous, so she tried to make up a game. The game was called  _ What Would Batman Do? _

He would have been out of this cell already, for one. With all his nifty gadgets and crazy ninja skills, he’d have been out in a hot minute. But she didn’t have any explosive gel, batarangs, or a grapple gun lying around, and although she was a gymnastic master, the cell was solid cement all around, with only a small, barred aperture to look out of. While she could stick an arm out and wave hello to Maxie and Victor, she was well and truly trapped in here. 

And so she moved onto round two of  _ What Would Batman Do?  _

The answer was the same as step one of  _ What Would Bane Do? _

Meditate. Which was boring and not all that useful, when her only goal was impossible.

Selina sighed, and settled back against her cot. She hoped Harley would come by eventually, if only to give her something to look at. 

…

…

…

An hour later, Maxie Zeus woke up. 

“Hello?” He called out, his deep baritone echoing in the humongous chamber. “Who dares to lock up the almighty Zeus?”

“Morning, Maxie,” Selina answered. “Did you sleep well?”

“Fine, yes, thank you for asking, but Maxie is not my name, young lady,” he reprimanded her. Selina grinned as she wrapped a hand around the bar to her window. Maxie had always been fond of her. Men generally were, (take a hint  _ Harvey) _ but he was more paternal than most. 

“Sorry about that, Zeus. But uh, I was wondering if you remembered anything else about what’s going on upstairs? You know, that whole thing about Joker’s rebellion?”

He’d shared a little last night, mostly to Selina, but Victor had to be listening in as well. His news had not been optimistic. He’d had the run down on the gangs and what they controlled—Two-Face in the kitchen, White Shark running the Penitentiary, Black Mask and his men running Intensive—all the while sniffing that gods were above such things. From that Selina deduced he was off his medication, and that . . . wasn’t a good thing. He was one of the inmates who seriously benefited from the anti-psychotics, and the fact that no one was going to administer them was a concern. 

“That upstart foreign god?” Maxie roared. “His time is limited, mark my words! The great Zeus cannot be held captive in the Titans’ pit for long!”

“Yeah, yeah, but what is he up to?” She prodded. 

“Spreading chaos and anarchy in his wake! The soldiers of Olympus were all slain, although he did demand the continued survival of the healers. The three fates alone know what twisted plot he weaves!”

_ Guards dead, doctors spared, Maxie has no idea what’s happening. Got it,  _ Selina mentally paraphrased.

“It is a thankful thing my Amelia was spared all this,” Maxie continued in a quieter voice. “I’d hate for her to worry.”

Wait, wait, what? Amelia? That wasn’t a Greek name, nor was that a Zeus-like thing to say. “Amelia?” She clarified.

“My human lover, of course!” He replied, back in god-mode. “My earthly consort, if you will. She was the only one whose spirit so resembled my fair Hera, who waits for me at the peak of Mount Olympus. Someday we shall be reunited, and then all the wrongs in this  _ universe _ shall be righted!”

Oh, that’s right—now she remembered. Maxie had been married, and it was only after the death of his wife (the aforementioned Amelia) that he had begun his descent into madness. Now that she thought about it, he and Victor could start a club: Slain Spouses Anonymous. Or, Evil-Doers Doing it in the Memory of Dead Wives. 

Ugh, none of those were any good. She was losing her mind down here. 

“Why’d the Joker throw you down here, anyway?” She asked.

“Because he fears my awesome might! He shackled my wrists so that I might not strike him down with my thunderbolts, and then threw me down into the realm of my brother, Hades, so that I might not rise up against him!”

“Wait, so are you saying Victor is Hades?” She asked, mildly diverted.

“Who is Victor? I know only Hades!”

Selina snorted. Imagining dour Victor Fries as the god of Hell would have been good enough to make her laugh, had she not been trapped in a cement box for the foreseeable future. “Who am I, then?” She asked. “Who was the Greek goddess of cats?”

“Do not play this game with me, daughter. Your name is Artemis, as you know full well.”

Artemis . . .  _ Artemis . . .  _ was she the hunting one? Or the home and hearth one? The one with the owl, maybe? Selina didn’t know, but she had a feeling that she’d hear all about her if they were all locked up for long enough. 

“We need to figure out a better codename for the Joker than ‘upstart foreign god,’” she pointed out.

“We could not refer to him by name at all,” Zeus suggested. “He is undeserving of the power a title infers.”

“I mean, I’m sure he’ll come prancing down here eventually. It’s what he does. God, he is an ugly, ugly man,” Selina said, losing control over her thoughts. She was hungry, tired, and bored. She could be saying worse things, definitely. “With my luck I’ll have to charm him to escape.”

“Oh, I highly doubt that will work, Artemis,” Maxie said. “The upstart foreign god doesn’t like you much.”

  
  
  


**June 24th, 20xx**

**Warden Sharp’s Office, 5:37 AM**

**Day 4**

  
  


In the darkness of Warden Sharp’s office sat a lone figure, long legs propped up on the desk, spindly fingers crossed over a trim stomach. Dark eyes glanced over the eight security monitors, missing nothing. Each was connected to a different area of the asylum, and in almost every monitor there was some level of controlled chaos. This was how it should be, the watcher and progenitor of the madness decided, but there was a itty bitty,  _ teeeeeeeny weeny  _ problem.

The Joker was bored. 

Sure, the overthrow had gone swimmingly, and everything had gone exactly to plan . . . but where was the fun in that? It had been  _ four days _ and Bats hadn’t shown up! What was he waiting for, an engraved invitation?

The Joker shook his head. He  _ knew _ he should have sent one. Maybe Cash’s other hand? Harley’s panties? Selina’s  _ head?  _

No, no, too late for that. He already had plans for her, and he wanted her alive when Bats came to the island. Just imagine the drama! He would just have to wait and be patient. Good things came to those who waited, was that the phrase? The Joker thought that silly. Good things more obviously came to those who went out and strangled them to death, first, but in this instance . . . well, it wasn’t like he didn’t have plenty of other toys to play with before his playdate showed up. 

Speaking of . . . the Joker swung his long legs down from where they rested on the desk. He focused on one monitor in particular, where the Riddler was industrially typing away. Even through the screen he could see Eddie-boy’s smirk, his ridiculous preening, how pleased he was with himself that he had taken over the communications and security for the entire island.

“Somebody needs to be taken down a peg,” the Joker murmured, his voice a low, threatening rumble. A wide smile cut across his face when he thought of a way to do it. 

“Oh Harrrrleyyyy,” he called out, knowing his girlfriend was currently napping but would wake whenever he damn well needed her to. “C’mere, would you? I’ve got an idea for a  _ new game.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RUN EDDIE RUN


	3. The Joker Games

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triggers: Detached description of torture, some Perry Como? Could that be a trigger?
> 
> Even with ‘the Riddler part’ this is probably the happiest chapter. Yayyy!
> 
> Status update: A2- Half of CH 10 (last chapter) and then am done.
> 
> A3- Starting Ch 3
> 
> A4- Halfway done with Ch 1
> 
> Look guys I am getting there, is what I am saying.

**Chapter 3: The Joker Games**

  
  


**June 25th 20xx**

**Medical Center lobby, 7:43 AM**

**Day 5**

  
  


Dr. Thomas Elliot hoped that the Joker wouldn’t call morning meetings all the time. He was on a schedule, and this posturing business would only serve to put him behind. The only fortunate point of this whole charade was that it was being held in the Medical Center lobby—had he been required to haul himself over to the Intensive Unit, or the Penitentiary, he might have rebelled. 

Well, he would have thought of rebelling. Even he knew better than to go against the Joker in one of his whims.

“Do you know what this is about?” He leaned over and quietly asked his neighbor. Dr. Jonathan Crane looked back at him from behind thin, wire-framed glasses, rather than his scarecrow mask. That meant Hush could expect a rational answer. This stretch of sanity was the one unlooked for boon of their arrangement—Crane had displayed a curious control over his Scarecrow persona, and rather than immediately descending into the depths of madness full time, he used it only when terrorizing his patients in his half of the Medical Laboratory—the older, subterranean section.

“I can’t say I do,” he said quietly, with nary a whisper of his southern accent. Had Hush not known from his medical records that he was born and raised in Georgia, he might have guessed Gotham. Crane continued, “Knowing the Joker, it won’t be immediately apparent, either.”

“Did he have to invite half the island, this time?” Hush whispered, eyes tracking to the large number of individuals already in the room. It was almost in the manner of an imperial court. Every famed supervillain in the Rogue’s Gallery was there, along with a cadre of handpicked henchmen, at least for those who had them. Two-Face, Black Mask, White Shark, Clayface, and the Riddler were all accompanied by at least five henchmen, while others like Firefly, the Ratcatcher, Mad Hatter, and the Ventriloquist were not. Of course, Hush and Crane had been  _ working _ and thus had not brought along their ‘assistants’ or henchmen on loan from Joker’s gang, and Poison Ivy, haunting the far corner, had declined to bring any of her zombie slaves. 

“He is a showman,” Crane noted. “He likes an audience.”

Crane’s light eyes flickered over the room and caught sight of Ivy. His left hand twitched, an aborted effort to reach for his mask which was hanging at his belt. It was the one defense he had against her pheromones, were she to begin releasing them into the room, and it was even more effective than Hush’s ability to be clinically dispassionate. 

He so hated the word sociopathy. It just didn’t do him justice.

Before Hush could continue this unexpectedly rational conversation, the doors were flung open, and a long, thin leg stretched forth. The Joker held the pose for a moment, like he was the drum major of a marching band before quick-stepping down the hallway. The whole thing was a little like a circus, really, because at his side skipped Harley Quinn, replete with clown makeup; behind him marched two dozen henchmen, all similarly bedecked. Several had bowties, and Hush winced at the garishness of the display.

The Joker strode in, mimicking the sound of a trumpet. Hush glanced over at Crane to see how he was taking all this. It was just in time to see Crane’s gaze fall to the ground, but he had not been looking in Joker’s direction. He had been looking at the corner of the room which housed Two-Face, Firefly, and Poison Ivy.

_ Categorizing the threats, even now,  _ Hush thought, distantly impressed.  _ Yes, I very much prefer Crane to Scarecrow. Nothing gets done, otherwise. _

“Gooooooooooooooooooood morning!” The Joker sang, throwing his arms wide to greet them all. “Oh, look at you all, up so bright and early, and all for little old  _ me.  _ So? Are you ready for the party?”

On cue, two of his henchmen activated their party favors and a small flutter of confetti drifted down. It would have been more compelling had they looked like they were enjoying themselves, rather than attending a funeral.

When no one else reacted, Joker sighed. “All right, all right, you’ve got me. It’s not  _ really _ a party. More of an . . . implementation of new laws in my regime, sort of thing. Harley! Bring me my scroll!”

“Sure thing, hun!” She chirped, before withdrawing an honest to god scroll from  _ somewhere _ on her person. 

_ Honestly, _ Hush thought.  _ Sometimes I just don’t get how our lives work. It’s like we’re in a comic book, or something. _

Harley Quinn sauntered up to her boyfriend, gave him the scroll, and blew him a playful kiss. The Joker pretended to catch it until her back was turned, and then made a show of scrubbing his cheek, wearing a disgusted expression. 

Next to him, Crane sighed. Hush silently agreed. It was, apparently, going to be one of  _ those _ days.

Joker cleared his throat and unfurled the scroll, which fell to about six inches long. “A _ hem.  _ Heretofore and forthwith and all that hoodellally, I now declare that Poison Ivy can no longer wear pants. Hmm? Oh wait, that’s not right.”  _ Sorry _ , he mouthed to her, grinning like a shark. He proceeded to turn the scroll upside down and then began again. 

“Ah yes, much better. Now to . . .  _ liven _ up this place a bit, at least until our  _ guest of honor  _ arrives, I’ve thought up some fantastic party games! Now I haven’t completely decided, but I’m considering calling them the Joker Games. Because they’re  _ my games.  _ Isn’t that fantastic?!”

He paused, expectantly, glaring at several in turn. Eventually the Riddler began clapping nervously and it started a ripple effect among the henchmen. After listening to half-hearted applause Joker cut them off like an orchestral conductor.

“All right, all right, enough of that. Let me give you the rules of  _ the Joker Games,”  _ he said with relish.

Most of the ‘rules’ were more like fairground games with a nasty twist, or so far as Hush could tell:

_ Whoever steals Harvey’s coin wins a tub of acid! _

_ Whoever steals a rat from the Ratcatcher wins a day off! _

_ Whoever steals one of Humpty Dumpty’s toys gets an extra meal! _

_ Whoever steals a kiss from Ivy gets promoted! _

_ Whoever steals a sample of Crane’s fear toxin gets a lapdance from Harley! _

Those particular games were fairly benign, (or at the very least  _ optional) _ although obviously geared towards generating ill will and dissension throughout the camp. Hush was thankful only one of those ‘pranks’ would be happening in the medical center, and from Harley’s earnest threats to castrate any man who came near her for a lap dance, he hoped Crane’s formula would be more or less safe. Less hooligans running around the medical center meant less killing for him, and he’d much prefer to get on with his work, particularly when he had an entire medical center basically to himself, and so much opportunity to experiment! 

There were a few other games that were slightly more involved, however. One in particular gave every man in the room pause. 

“Ah yes, and here’s a personal favorite,” Joker began. He cleared his throat before saying, “Tag! I’m sure you’re all familiar with the rules: Whoever is ‘it’ has to run around and tag people, and whoever you tag has to chase you down and kill you. If you don’t tag at least five people in ten minutes or less, everyone in the Asylum is free to hunt you down themselves. Whoever kills the person who’s ‘it’ gets a nice surprise . . . maybe immunity from ever being ‘it?’ Oh, I’m still working out those details. Maybe we need a couple rounds, first.

“Of course, you are allowed to use lethal force to protect yourself,” the Joker continued, as if addressing a minor concern. “So I wouldn’t tag people I’m fond of, if you catch my drift. But why would you? This exercise is a way of getting to know new and interesting people. Maybe your eyes meet over a crowded room . . .” He fluttered his eyelashes before growling, “And then you beat them to death with a crowbar.”

Every one of Shark, Mask, Riddler, and Two-Face’s henchmen froze. Even some of Joker’s goons looked uneasy. 

“The game is effective immediately, of course, but I’ll have Harley make an announcement filling in the rest of the asylum on the rules, later. As for now . . .  _ Roach!”  _ He roared, and one of Black Mask’s goons jumped.

“Uh, yeah?” He whimpered.

The Joker fixed a beady eye on him. “You used to be one of my boys, didn’t you?”

The henchman was visibly shaking, now. “Uh, no?”

The Joker feigned surprise. “No? Really? Then how do I know your name?”

“Uh, boss, we have a Roach of our own,” one of the clown-faced baddies quietly pointed out. “He’s in Blackgate, remember?”

“Ohhhhh right!” The Joker exclaimed, snapping his fingers. He shrugged before pointing at Roach. “Oh well; I know your name;  _ you’re it! _ ”

The unfortunately named Roach jerked as if he’d been electrocuted with a live wire. After a glance at his superior showed him that there was no salvation from that quarter—Black Mask was firmly in Joker’s pocket—he looked wildly around the room, desperately searching for a target who he could and  _ would  _ kill with absolutely no provocation. He darted forward and landed a weak punch on the arm of Harvey Dent’s smallest, wiriest man.

“Get ‘em,” Two-Face muttered, and his goon was after Roach like a shot. Neither man made it to the door. Moving with incredible speed, Two-Face’s man pulled out a shiv and shanked Roach from behind as he reached for the door handle. Roach fell to the floor, crying out in pain, but Two-Face’s goon pulled his head back and neatly sliced his throat. 

Flicking blood off his knife, he turned to face the group.

“I see we may need to implement a head start. But well  _ done,  _ Harvey,” the Joker murmured, dark eyes appraising the efficient assassin. “You certainly know how to pick ‘em, don’t you?”

Two-Face shrugged. “The coin never lets me down,” he rasped.

Hush considered this as the assassin retook his place behind his leader. Two-Face may claim reliance on that infamous coin of his, but he hadn’t relied on it just then. He’d ordered his man without consulting it, which was, as far as Hush could tell, out of character.

Interesting.

The Joker clapped his hands. “Well, you all see how it goes. We’ll start a new round after the meeting, but first there’s something that I absolutely  _ must  _ do. I’ve been so remiss in my duties as beloved—if not quite benevolent—overlord, I simply must address it now.” He reached out a gloved hand towards the Riddler, who paled, his freckles standing out in stark relief.

“My right hand man, everyone!” The Joker announced, smiling proudly. “The man who made this  _ alllllll _ happen. Eddie ‘the Riddler’ Nygma!”

The call for applause was more obvious this time, and even Hush contributed a few dry handclaps. The Riddler, sensing he was to be made much of rather than punished; preened, sketching a little bow to the largely unimpressed audience.

“He really is proud as a peacock,” Hush murmured, more to himself than anyone else.

Crane glanced over at him from the corner of his eye. “Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall,” he quoted quietly. 

Hush looked at him fully. He’d no idea Crane had a religious upbringing, and to an extent where he could correctly quote a commonly misquoted chapter of Proverbs? For it certainly couldn’t be current religious beliefs, not with his lifestyle.  _ Hidden depths,  _ he inwardly commented. 

Today was turning out to be very interesting, indeed.

“Thank you, thank you,” Edward said, now comfortable and in his element. “You’re too kind. It was nothing, really.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say  _ that,  _ Eddie-boy! None of this could have happened without you! I mean, the communication mainframe alone! It’s an achievement, my boy, an absolute achievement.” The Joker was being practically paternal, and every one of his goons was stiff as a board. Even Harley Quinn was keeping her distance, rather than flitting about at the edges of Joker’s attention. That was probably not a good sign, and so Hush remained vigilant, if a little impatient for this charade to be over.

He had patients to see, and lunatic minds to dissect, after all.

“Well, I suppose so,” Riddler gushed, “If I do say so myself—”

“And you  _ do _ , don’t you? At great length!” The Joker nudged him with a sharp elbow, and Edward winced and folded over. “It’s one of your greatest talents, talking about yourself. Everybody knows that, but I think I can play to your  _ other _ great talent.”

“Which is?” Edward wheezed.

“I have a riddle for you, Eddie-boy.”

“Oh?” He asked, red brow climbing higher on his forehead.

“Riddle me this,” the Joker began with a voice that was light and airy. “What is as inevitable as Batman’s arrival and twice as satisfying?”

The Riddler blinked, no doubt running through hundreds of options in a very short amount of time. Annoying as he was, he did possess a surprising amount of intelligence. “Well, there are quite a few permutations of that particular archetype, but I would say—”

“I’ll tell you,” the Joker interrupted, throwing an arm around him. His voice dropped low and menacing. “ _ Destroying your ego.” _

After that it was inevitable. The Riddler struggled but the Joker was implacable, and very, very strong. He overpowered him easily. Those in attendance watched quietly, uneasily, as the Joker beat Edward Nygma to within an inch of his life; first with his fists, then with a crowbar that appeared to come from thin air. Edward’s moans and pleas for mercy tapered off eventually, but it took a long time for the Joker to be satisfied his point had been made—no one was safe in his regime. Not even those upon whom it relied. 

He’d worked up a sweat by the time he pulled away from the quivering, bleeding, broken man on the floor. Only the shallow rise and fall of his ribcage revealed the Riddler was still alive. The Joker wiped his brow, and flicked a few droplets of sweat away. 

“Woooo!” He sighed. “Worked up a sweat, there! Well, you know what they say about hard work and rewards. Now, any more questions?”

No one mentioned that no one had in fact  _ asked _ any questions. They simply stared back at Joker, waiting to see what he would do next. 

Joker clapped his hands. “In that case, class dismissed! Ah, except for you, Dr. Tommy. I need a word with you.”

Hush narrowed his eyes, but dutifully walked over to the Joker, stepping over the Riddler on the way. “Yes?”

The Joker reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. He smelled like sweat, blood, and greasepaint, the coppery scent mixing ill in Hush’s nostrils.

“I need a favor,” he said quietly, leaning in. “See, I  _ might _ have gone a little overboard with Eddie, and I’m not exactly ready for him to duck out the game, yet, so I need you to keep him alive for me. Pretty please?” He finished, twisting his features pleadingly.

Hush glanced over at the body on the floor. He both quailed and was intrigued at the thought of saving someone so close to death. 

“I’ll do my best,” he said dryly. “If I could enlist some help moving him to critical care?”

The Joker snapped his fingers and several men stepped forward to carry the Riddler. Hush sighed and hoped this sort of thing wouldn’t happen too often. He had enough things to do and patients to see without the Joker giving him more of them.

  
  


**June 25th 20xx**

**Resistance Bunker, 11:47 AM**

**Day 5**

  
  


Several days with the resistance had led Joan Leland to several uncomfortable determinations. One, that they couldn’t continue like this indefinitely. While their air, food and water supply would hold out for months at least—the bunker was well-ventilated, connected to an underground well, and a few careful food runs had supplied bread, canned milk, fruit, and vegetables, as well—it was simply not feasible to assume that fourteen individuals would be able to coexist in such a small space without detection for more than a month at most. This was to say nothing of the smell, social clashes, or the arduous process it had become to wash their clothing, as well as themselves. One way or another, through detection or cabin fever, they would either be forced from or choose to leave the bunker, and as of yet Joan could not foresee any positive endings in either scenario.

Yet as of this morning there were no longer fourteen, as they had suffered two losses since her arrival in the bunker. Brian had not survived his exposure to the mixture of fear toxin and laughing gas, and he had died the night after Joan arrived. They’d had to dump his body in the bay the next morning, following a short, quiet moment of prayer and reflection; dragging his body down one of the winding tunnels to a sudden drop off high above the water. 

Not a day later, Eddie, Bill, and Zach had nearly been caught on their last information run, while skulking around in tunnels near the Penitentiary. They’d been forced to fight and kill several inmates, which was difficult enough—particularly for Eddie, who had never killed a man, even in self defense—and had nearly gotten caught again when hiding the bodies in one of the old storage closets. They had made it back, but last night Steve had not, and Javier and Raoul had been forced to leave his body in the kitchens, surrounded by the corpses of two of Two-Face’s men.

They were down to two doctors and ten guards from their original fourteen individuals total, and Joan knew the compounding psychological loss and wear on those that remained would wear them down eventually.

Her second determination was that the stress was already getting to Stephen Kellerman. She feared he would crack sooner, rather than later. When he wasn’t poring over the notes he had taken from his office, or using the empty margins of them to sketch out plans and profiles of the villains in charge of the asylum, he was reverting more and more to a frightened shell of a man. She did everything she could to draw him back into socializing with the others, but she could not mother him and the rest of the men at the same time, and she suspected her efforts would soon not be enough.

Her last determination was that Aaron Cash might be the death of her, or at the very least, would drive her insane. He was as protective of her as she was with Stephen and the younger guards (Eddie, Jackson, and Taylor) and his hovering, in a space equatable to the size of a tin can, was not very subtle. He’d used his status to secure her one of the four cots in the ‘bedroom,’ which she kept giving away when he’d left, to Stephen, Raoul, and Bill in turn. He responded by giving her a quiet but concise piece of his mind when he found her sleeping on the floor, half-propped up by the wall. This was to say nothing of his physical presence, which, unless  _ he _ was sleeping or out on a supply run, was almost constant. His refusal to let her go out on runs went without saying. She had begun sleeping in her shoes so he might not get the idea to hide them from her.

His bout of overprotective chivalry had not gone unnoticed. Bill North, one of his closest friends and colleagues among the Arkham staff, had headed him off at the pass a few times, distracting him with supply run plans or simply talking him into taking a nap. Zach Franklin, another of his friends, had begun to shoot her looks of commiseration whenever Aaron stayed too close for too long. Another of the senior most members of the security force, Louie Green, had taken to wordlessly handing her shots of whisky—a crate had been lifted from the kitchens, and it absolutely should not have been there in the first place but they were all reaping the dubious benefits now—anytime she growled at Aaron. Yesterday she’d had six shots in a four hour period, and thought that, were they not in terror for their lives, it might be a remarkable coping technique. 

Eddie Burlow saw nothing wrong with it, however. “I think it’s sweet,” he told her, after she had groaned for a solid minute upon discovering Aaron had removed her shoelaces in her sleep, thus circumventing her reason for wearing them at all times. “He’s so worried about you! Isn’t that a good thing?”

Eddie was a rare flower who absolutely should not be a guard at Arkham, Joan decided. How he could be so effective with the inmates and sensitive with his colleagues was one of the great mysteries of the asylum. 

“Eddie, that man has my shoelaces,” she ground out, pinching the bridge of her nose. “What part of you thinks that is a good thing?”

He winced. “Um. It’s so he can keep you close . . .? To, you know. Protect you?”

His eyes grew wide at her answering glare.

Later on, when she was alone in the bathroom for forty-five seconds of peace—they had all learned to do their business very quickly—she admitted something shameful to herself. It was easy to focus her annoyance and frustration on Aaron, but there was at least as much directed at herself. She felt safer when he was nearby, and last night had actually sagged into his touch when he’d put his hand on her shoulder. That moment of weakness could perhaps be forgivable, save for the fact that far worse would follow if she allowed herself to give into it. She was the head psychologist at Arkham, and she had not become so without becoming aware of herself. If she allowed herself to rely on him, take refuge in him,  _ need _ him to feel safe, how on earth would she ever go on living without him?

_ I may be in some amount of trouble,  _ she allowed, staring at her wan reflection in the cracked mirror.  _ We need to get the hell out of here, already. Barring that, I need some sort of project; something to focus my mind on when Aaron starts to loom— _

There was a quiet  _ ding dong,  _ and then a message piped in from over the island’s loudspeakers, muffled, but still making it down to the bunker.

“Joker here! Just a friendly reminder that any notes on the mysterious ‘compound’ would be greatly appreciated. And by that, I mean  _ GET YOUR REARS IN GEAR AND FIND ME THAT FORMULA!” _

Just like that, Joan knew what she had to do.

First, however, she had to find her shoelaces.

…

…

…

Two hours later Aaron, Raoul and Javier came back to find Joan at the table, sketching out a plan with her fingertips on the map laid over the table top. Bill, Louie, and Taylor were watching closely, while Mike, Zach, and Jackson were sleeping in the bedroom. Eddie stood propped up against the wall, eating a can of corn, and Stephen, also sitting at the table, had his head in his hands.

“This will never work, Joan,” he said nervously. “They must have combed your office already!”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” she corrected him. “The offices they’ve looked through—and I’d bet my life on this—would be yours; Penelope Young’s; Sharp’s, obviously, and Gretchen Whistler’s. I’ve never shown any interest in chemistry, and have openly looked down on the rising drug use in psychiatry. Everyone knows I favor the least invasive drug regimen among the doctors, so why would they look through my office for some experimental drug?”

“Unless Scarecrow or Ivy gave you up,” Bill pointed out. Joan liked Bill a good deal. He was a man of eminent common sense, and tended to stay calm in crisis. This was due in part to his lack of imagination, but it was his adherence to discipline that made him such a stellar guard. 

“If Ivy was going to give me up she would have done so when she had me,” she argued. “Besides, she doesn’t want Joker to get the compound. If anything, she’s going to work to protect it.”

“You sure about that?” Louie asked her.

Joan looked back over her shoulder at Aaron, who was watching them with narrowed eyes. “Is Ivy going to give Joker the compound, Aaron?”

“No,” he said without hesitation. “She would not. What’s going on, here?”

“Joker’s getting desperate, Aaron,” Bill said. “Dr. Leland needs to hide any evidence of the . . .” He waved his hand in an uncertain gesture.” . . . concoction.”

“And destroy the notes,” she added. “They’re cryptic, but in my office. While he probably hasn’t looked there yet, he will eventually. We need to get in there and destroy them.”

“Absolutely not,” Aaron said, a knee-jerk reaction. “Woman, just let him have the damn formula! Even if it worked it wouldn’t help him anyway!”

“We don’t know that, Aaron,” Joan said with a mighty effort to keep cool. “The side-effects were becoming quite pronounced on Harvey and Jervis. If Joker tweaks it—or god forbid, learns how to use it, he could create an army of hyper-loyal supervillains!”

“We kind of already took a vote,” Louie offered up quietly. He too had been into the whisky, which made meeting Aaron’s enraged expression slightly easier to face. “Six in favor, one against, one abstained. Even if you all vote no, majority’s spoken.”

“You’re shit out of luck, ‘cuz my vote counts for ten,” Aaron said. “And—”

“This is greater than us,” Raoul interrupted, his quiet Latin accent pitched low and soothing. “We cannot let the Joker make a new weapon if we could stop him. Why else are we guards here, if not to protect Gotham from the inmates?”

“I have a duty to protect all of you!”

“And our needs are greater than the people of Gotham? Our friends, families? Those we love?” Raoul asked.

Aaron growled. “If we go on this run, I highly doubt we’re all going to come back alive.”

“There are tunnels that lead very close to the wing my office is in,” Joan pointed out, taking the blueprints from Taylor with a nod of thanks. “By our calculations, three or four of us could get in and get out in less than five minutes. Ten, if they’ve ransacked the office. If we time it just right, there would be no casualties.”

“No casualties my ass. This is madness,” Aaron stated. “And six of you voted for this?”

“Everyone but Stephen,” Joan said.

“It’s never going to work,” Stephen moaned. “How can it?”

Aaron frowned, accusing them all with his eyes alone. “Who abstained, then?”

Eddie raised his hand, looking miserable. 

“And why was that?” Aaron pressed him.

“Because I’m afraid of you yelling at me, sir.”

“Not enough, apparently!”

“But it’s the right thing to do!” Eddie burst out, finding his courage. “Even I know that! Raoul’s right. We’re here to keep everybody in Gotham safe, so that nobody else dies like my dad and my little brother, at the hands of some souped-up villain and his thugs.” He breathed harshly and shook his head. “You know what, I can’t stand by and watch the rest of my family die from some new poison. I’m sorry, but I’m changing my vote, sir. I say we destroy those notes!”

By the time he finished he was panting with emotion. Joan was stunned. She had no idea Eddie had family members who were killed by a supervillain’s attack, and it certainly colored her perception of his calm demeanor and patience with the current residents of Arkham. The depths of his kindness and empathy must be deep indeed not to turn that pain into a desire for revenge. 

She murmured, “Eddie, I’m so sorry—”

“It was a long time ago,” he said abruptly. “And Penguin’s dying anyway, so it doesn’t matter.”

“As long as it matters to you, it matters to me,” she said. “Thank you for your bravery then and now.”

“Yeah, well, it won’t mean much if the boss doesn’t let us go,” he said, setting his jaw. 

Every person in the room turned to look at Cash. No one said aloud what Joan knew to be true: that if her presence wasn’t required on this mission, it would have been over and done with already. 

_ Aaron, please! _ She mouthed. 

He sighed mightily, bringing his right hand to his forehead, resting his hook against his leg. “God help us,” he muttered. “All right, fine. What’s your plan?”

  
  
  


**June 25th 20xx**

**Cafeteria, 5:58 PM**

**Day 5**

  
  


Ivy didn’t have to eat anymore, not really. Or at least, not much. It was one of the easiest ways to see Harley, however, so she took advantage of the new and relaxed meal schedule to sit with her friend for dinner, poking listlessly at a dinner roll as Harley chattered a mile a minute about nothing at all. 

“I told him I meant business Red, and in less than two minutes he’d gone from wielding that broken chair leg in my general direction to blubbering on the floor! Oh, it was priceless, I tell you!”

Halfway across the cafeteria, just at the edge of her gaze, a tall, thin man sat down at a table. Without moving her head Ivy focused on him. He’d been familiar even at the blurry edges of her peripheral vision, but there was an odd moment of surprised recognition in seeing Jonathan Crane. He looked tired, as he usually did, save for his times of manic elation as Scarecrow. He did not look around before slowly and methodically eating his own dinner, and she felt awkward for staring. She tilted her head back to Harley so it appeared she was giving her friend her full attention.

She wasn’t, but it was the appearance that counted.

“Oh and then!  _ Then!  _ Someone actually made off with a sample of fear toxin, and do you know what he did with it?”

It was ridiculous, but she was relieved to see him; glad he hadn’t suffered a similar fate as Edward. The Joker was clearly in a mood, and Scarecrow was one of the greater competitors for Batman’s attention. If he felt threatened, would he hurt Crane?

_ No,  _ thought Ivy, with a surprising amount of force behind it.  _ I don’t want that. _

Harley continued her tirade, but only snatches of it filtered through Ivy’s concentrated inattention. “ . . . we sort of stared at each other for a moment, and I was like  _ oh here it comes _ but then he started giving  _ me _ a lapdance! And I didn’t even have the serum anymore!”

Ivy tuned her out again in favor of reflecting on Crane’s sudden appearance. He had not been the only person at his table, and it appeared that they were talking. Civilly, no less. What was he doing sitting with Harvey Dent and Thomas Elliot? Elliot made a removed sort of sense, although after working together all day she’d have assumed they wanted some time apart. Perhaps they were working through dinner on a project? But then why include Harvey? 

More importantly, why hadn’t any of them stabbed the other with a plastic fork, yet?

“And between you and me, he was kind of impressive. Had to be at least nine inches, if you know what I mean. And he was  _ good. _ Definitely better than me, and that’s not something a woman should say about one of Joker’s goons! What makes a person that talented go into a life of crime? He coulda been an exotic dancer!”

Ivy tore her eyes away from the odd trio. Any mention of male genitalia brought back . . . unpleasant memories. Visceral ones. Memories that somehow managed to be undimmed by her change into a half-human, half-plant hybrid, even when so many other memories had faded away.

Harley leaned forward and poked Ivy’s face with a limp french fry. “ _ That _ got your attention? Honestly, Ivy. I could be talking about Mistah J in bed for all you know!”

“Oh, I’d know,” she said dryly. “Believe me. We made a pact about that, and unless you want to be encased in sap for a week solid, you’ll say no more on  _ that _ subject, thank you.”

Harley pouted. “Oh, you’re no fun. And these fries are soggy! I’m getting new ones. Stay there, I’ll be right baaaaaack!” She sing-songed as she skipped off across the cafeteria, spinning and dancing her way around burly, male inmates. Many of them didn’t spare her a second glance, knowing the Joker wouldn’t take kindly to anyone else playing with his toys. Others, who were newer to the system, gave her a lingering, appreciative glance. One or two nudged the men nearest to them, and made it clear through words or crude gestures what they’d do to her, if the opportunity presented itself.

Ivy made note of their faces, and planned for some of her more aggressive darlings to make their acquaintance later on.

Harley ran into a few of Joker’s boys before she reached the line, however, and it appeared they had some sort of grievance to air. Knowing that Harley would end up mothering them—or smacking them silly, either way—Ivy’s eyes drifted back over to Crane’s table, just as he glanced over at hers.

Their gaze held for a moment, and then both looked away. 

Ivy looked down at the tabletop and let herself remember.

  
  
  


**_November 14th, 20xx_ **

**_The Green Mile, 2:17 AM_ **

**_(8 months prior to takeover)_ **

  
  


_ It took Ivy about a month to realize her initial assumptions regarding the serum were correct. While she’d made early progress, she was stymied by certain technical aspects of the serum. She needed assistance, and there was only one person in the asylum who could render it.  _

_ She’d told Joan this in their last session, and was therefore unsurprised to see Aaron Cash leading a guest into the Green Mile, early in the morning on a week when she was fairly certain Sharp was out in Gotham, promoting his chances for the mayoral election. The prisoner waited patiently in his straightjacket, not squirming or yelling as Cash unfolded the plastic chair and then pushed him into it.  _

_ Cash stalked away, saying, “15 minutes. That’s all you get, and then it’s back to Intensive for him.” _

_ “Thank you, Aaron,” she said, but kept her gaze on her visitor. Dr. Jonathan Crane watched her with similar focus, although there was a hint of wariness about him. One was not called out of their cell in the middle of the night to talk to Poison Ivy. It appeared he was not too pleased that this anomalous occurrence was happening to him now. _

_ Knowing she’d get nothing from him if she was not careful, Ivy tried to observe social niceties. “I apologize for interrupting your sleep, Doctor, but my options were limited.” _

_ Crane watched her carefully. He was not much older than her; bird-boned and well over six foot, with a wiry strength. Although not traditionally handsome, his face was long and expressive, and his eyes were surprisingly light, and the expression in them was very, very intelligent.  _

_ He was sane. Therefore, according to Joan, more dangerous. _

_ “Good evening, Doctor Isley,” he said, his voice raspy. It was a thin, cultured voice, with none of Batman’s baritone rumble or Harvey’s smoker’s growl, or the resonance of Joker’s manic tenor. _

_ “I have a proposition for you,” she stated bluntly. She saw no reason not to get to the point.  _

_ He narrowed his eyes, and his weight shifted almost imperceptibly backwards. “I’m not interested in that sort of thing, Doctor.” _

_ Ivy looked at him again, taking stock. Time had not been kind to him, nor had his years here, on and off. His skin was waxy, and the jut of his jaw was not what anyone would call attractive. His eyes were both exotic and strange—there was a rim of blue around the edges of the iris, but little color between that and the pupil, giving them an eerie, soulless look. Strands of dark hair fell messily across his face, and as he was bound so thoroughly he was unable to push them back. They shaded his unsettling eyes and the sharpness of his gaze. To someone who did not know him, nor what he could do, they might have underestimated him.  _

_ Ivy hoped she had not done just the opposite.  _

_ “Call me Pamela, please.” In an odd twist, she’d decided that she’d prefer him to call her by her old name. It would create an intangible boundary, and would help her feel a little more in control. “And it’s not that sort of proposition. I’ve been given leave to create a chemical compound, and I would appreciate your collaborative efforts.”  _

_ Thinking there was no harm in sweetening the pot, she continued, “You’re the only one that I could come to for help.” _

_ Unlike most other men—heaven forfend, Edward Nygma came to mind—he did not puff up, or preen. The doctor did not have much ego to speak of, or perhaps his vanity was not flattered by way of his talents and natural intelligence. Rather, he eyed her suspiciously. “Given leave to dabble in a lab? You? That’s impossible. You’re one of the most heavily guarded prisoners here.” _

_ Ivy raised her eyebrow. “The project is sanctioned by the Asylum, and it’s been argued that allowing me to assist will help my rehabilitation. The process will build empathy, I’m told.” _

_ He shifted in his chair, rolling one of his shoulders. Ivy had not been in a straightjacket for quite some time now, but she remembered how infernally uncomfortable they were. That he no longer looked to be overly bothered by it spoke volumes as to his familiarity with it, and perhaps his ability to ignore the discomfort entirely.  _

_ That made Ivy cautious. If he were dispelling his discomfort mentally, what else could he do? _

_ “And you need my help with . . . ?” He asked leadingly. _

_ “I’m fine with all bio-matter, but I can’t manipulate the synthetics well enough. You also have experience with a toxin that may be similar to this, at least in the fundamentals, so I thought you may have some insight on the bonding processes, later on.” _

_ He understood immediately. Really, it was something of a relief to communicate with someone so intelligent. Most of her conversations, other than those held with Joan which were stilted for other reasons, were with utter neanderthals, or lunatics out of their sainted minds.  _

_ Or Harley, of course, who was brilliant, but between her abstract creativity and her bubbly demeanor, that was something of a different beast. _

_ “You’re creating something similar to my fear toxin?” He clarified. “I can hardly see how that would be sanctioned by our dear Warden.” _

_ At the door, Cash cleared his throat. Ivy thought that if he weren’t the chief of security, it might have been to cover up a cough. Maybe even a laugh. _

_ “The opposite, in a sense,” she corrected him. “The focus is on empathy, rather than fear. It’s a mind-altering drug that relies on a system of neurochemical gratification to help those in abusive relationships gain the clarity to pull themselves free.” _

_ His queer light eyes tracked her face, never dipping to her body. It had been a long time since a man had not even reflexively admired her. It was an odd turn of events, particularly as she felt so thoroughly dissected. While the situation was wholly dissimilar, she hadn’t felt so naked since her time with Dr. Woodrue. _

_ “Miss Quinn,” he said. “You’re making this for her.” _

_ Ivy nodded. _

_ Crane cast his gaze at the floor, hiding his thoughts behind surprisingly long eyelashes.  _ He must have been teased as a child _ , Ivy thought, in a rare flash of her former humanity.  _ His face cannot decide whether it is beautiful or ugly, striking or hideous. 

_ “What exactly do you want from me?” He asked, and there was just a whisper of a familiar accent. It reminded her of her father. Harley had said something about his being from the south, and she thought it was interesting that she’d never heard it before when he was Scarecrow, only now when he was Crane. _

_ “Assistance with the compound. They won’t let you in the lab, but I would bring printouts of everything I’d worked on.” _

_ He raised an eyebrow at her. “And in return?” _

_ Ivy took a deep breath. Here it was, the moment she’d assured Joan would go off without a hitch. Now that he was in front of her, however, on the other side of the bubble and thus unable to be influenced by her pheromones, she had a moment of misgiving. “I’d give you what you wanted.” _

_ His other eyebrow rose to match. “Which is?” _

_ Either he couldn’t imagine her giving him this freely, or he was punishing her for dragging him out of his cell in the middle of the night. Both were possible, and the latter annoyed her deeply, but she needed him. She could take her revenge later, but for now, she had to play nice. _

_ “My fear,” she said bluntly. “My hybrid-biology breaks down your toxin before it does much harm, so I offer it up, freely.” _

_ He was looking directly at her, so the flash of excitement in his eyes was obvious. That she had gauged his motivation and interest so perfectly gave her a moment of gratification. He may not be like other men, but she had found the way to make him tick. _

_ He was not beyond playing coy, however. He leaned back in his chair, watching her carefully. “You’re not serious. You can’t possibly want to give me your fears.” _

_ “No, not particularly,” she admitted, trying to make herself seem less hesitant about this than she was. “But I want a chance to save my friend. I can’t protect her when I’m in Arkham, and the Joker has already proven that he can hurt her on either side of the asylum walls. It’s been . . . getting worse, and he’ll kill her if she stays with him. You know that.” _

_ At this point, almost everyone did. Two weeks ago the Joker had managed to put Harley into the medical center even though they were no longer allowed contact with each other. Asylum guards were still scrambling to determine how it had happened, and it made Ivy wish that the mad clown would just escape already so that Harley would have a chance to recover. _

_ Crane’s lips tightened, just a touch. After a moment he nodded, hesitantly. “I would require full sessions with you, Doctor Isley, and for as long as you require my assistance. I insist that you be honest with me, and I’ll know if you’re lying. If you lie to me, I’ll lie to you, and you’ll never have your compound.” _

_ He had been one of the most brilliant minds in the psychological field. Was still even now, if Joan’s warning was to be heeded, but this was her only chance. Besides, what could he do with her fears? Were he—or anyone else—ever in a position to use them against her, she’d be in a position to use  _ her  _ powers against  _ them _. _

_ “You can’t tell anyone about the project, Doctor Crane. If Harley or the Joker find out . . .” _

_ “I won’t even tell Scarecrow.” _

_ That struck her as odd. He thought of them as two different beings? “Do we have a deal?” She asked, rather than explore that odd dichotomy. _

_ His thin lips curved in a smile. “I look forward to working with you, Doctor Isley.” _

…

…

…

“Now  _ there’s _ an odd trio,” Harley said, as she plunked down a new tray of fries, pulling Ivy from her memories. “Harvey, Dr. Tommy, and Professor Crane? I wonder why they’re sitting together. I don’t think they really like each other much.”

“So few of us do,” Ivy said. Feeling awkwardly caught out, even though there was no possible way Harley knew just who and what she had been thinking about, she changed topics abruptly with, “Harley, what has the Joker done with Joan?”

“Whaddaya mean?” Harley asked, a fry halfway masticated.

“I heard his men talking about her,” Ivy lied, gauging Harley’s reaction for information. “Why is he still putting out PA announcements about finding all the doctors if he already has her?”

Harley’s eyes widened, tokening innocence. “But he doesn’t have her, I’d know! I’m the one in charge of tracking down who’s left! For instance, did you know that Stephan Kellerman was the last person off the island? He signed out only 30 minutes before the takeover, and as his car isn’t here he must have  _ just  _ made it over the bridge before we raised it.”

Ivy had no interest in hearing about Stephen. “Then why were his men talking about  _ Joan _ ?”

“Well, what did they say?”

“I can’t tell that. My babies don’t speak English. All I can get is the gist.”

Harley shrugged. “Well, her body hasn’t been found yet, and Zsasz hasn’t called in another doctor kill since Penelope Young. Boy, you should have seen Mistah J when that call came in.  _ ‘Stop killing the doctors!’”  _ She said in a surprisingly accurate parody of the Joker’s voice. “‘ _ What if  _ I _ want to kill them later?’” _

“Harley, focus.”

“Sorry Red, it was hilarious. Maybe you had to be there. But about Joan, I dunno?” Her voice dropped and she glanced around reflexively, ensuring none of Joker’s boys would overhear her. “I kinda hope she’s in that resistance he goes on and on about. So what if we missed a coupla guards? They aren’t going anywhere!”

“Then what about Selina?” Ivy pushed, leaving behind the subject of the resistance—a topic on which she knew far more about than the Joker, for once. “ _ She’s _ not in the resistance.”

Harley looked away for just a moment.  _ There’s a crack,  _ Ivy thought, and wished she had some of the compound. Finished or not, maybe she could have made it a fissure. 

“He won’t tell me,” she admitted. “That’s . . . probably not a good sign, is it?”

“No it is not,” Ivy said, her heart sinking. “Not at all.”

  
  
  


**June 25th 20xx**

**Extreme Incarceration, 9:47 PM**

**Day 5**

In between the two square meals of bologna sandwiches and water a day; pooping in a hole in the ground; the excruciating boredom of staring at the walls of her cell or the Extreme Incarceration room beyond; Joker’s mad PA announcements which seemed to center on finding some mysterious serum or tallying up the list of goons killed by ‘playing tag,’; Maxie Zeus slipping further into his delusions, and sleeping the most she’d ever had in her life simply because there was  _ nothing else to do  _ (and ok, let’s be real, practicing the Art of Self Love because that was important  _ too _ ) Selina was learning things. Things like Victor, when he forgot he had company, would sing German folk tunes and also Perry Como hits in a surprisingly pleasant baritone. She was particularly fond of his rendition of ‘No Other Love.’ Were it not for the embarrassment obvious in his sudden cut offs when he remembered he wasn’t alone—or that one time Maxie had tried to join in—she would have started making requests.

Oh, who was she kidding. She’d probably request ‘Some Enchanted Evening’ in a day or so, or ‘Killing Me Softly With Her Song,’ because Victor Fries wasn’t the Fugees, but it was the only thing that passed for entertainment, down here.

She was going to try and hold off, though. She’d been . . . distinctly unpleasant for the last 24 hours, and she’d like to give the boys a chance to recover from her sharp tongue and bad mood. It wasn’t their fault she was locked up in here, and if she continued to antagonize them just because she was hungry and thirsty and out of her mind with stress and boredom they wouldn’t help her out even if they had an opportunity to do so. 

(Besides, it was a Jervis day to be fed, and if she held on for just a little longer, she was sure he’d give her the vial of happy juice again, and she would take it gladly because her hallucinations would give her something to  _ do.) _

But it felt like it was getting later, and they hadn’t been fed since Jervis came down for breakfast. Maybe he wouldn’t come down again at all, and then they’d be shit out of luck because Wesker wouldn’t come down to feed them (if the pattern held) until tomorrow’s lunch. If that was the case—

“Artemis? Artemis, are you awake?”

Selina threw herself to the door of her cell a little more quickly than she meant to. It never paid to let a man know you were in need of attention, but she  _ was,  _ goddamnit. This was the worst, and she was never talking to the Joker ever again. Hell, if she knew it wouldn’t make Bruce permanently end their clandestine, on-again, off-again tryst (of eight years now, and let’s face it, they were pretty much dating. Hell, eight years was pretty much  _ marriage  _ in the super community) she would find a way to  _ kill  _ the Joker _.  _

“Maxie? What’s up?”

“I am not  _ Maxie,” _ the delusional mob boss roared. “How dare you disrespect me?”

“Sorry, Dad, you know how I get when I have a bad hunt,” Selina said, thankful that Victor had unbent enough the other day while Maxie was asleep to tell her the bare bones of her ‘character.’ Maxie had been getting steadily more upset about her Greek mythological faux pas, and it really was for the best that they both play along. 

Unbelievably, that drew a raspy laugh from the self-proclaimed god. “Out turning strapping young lads into stags again, eh, Daughter?”

Sorry, what now? Victor had not warned her about this. “Uhhh. Yes. That is a thing that has happened. At least once. Maybe twice? Yes.”

“What was the name of the first young man that happened to? I can never remember,” Maxie said, and Selina sighed. He always fell into a rage when she couldn’t play along, and with his weird obsession with quizzing her on her fictional, Greek mythological origins, it happened pretty much every conversation now.

She opened her mouth, ready to say ‘Jason,’ (because she’d watched Jason and the Argonauts once as a kid, and besides, in her experience, the answer of ‘Jason’ to any bad thing/person/whatever was kind of a inside joke in the Batfamily, and she’d been conditioned) when help came from an unexpected corner.

“Actaeon,” Victor Fries said, his low voice calm. “And it wouldn’t have happened at all if he hadn’t been spying on her in the bath.”

Selina air pumped. Victor Fries for the win!

“Ahh, yes. Thank you, Hades. I suppose you would know all about him, as he went to your realm after the hounds ripped him apart.”

There was a moment of mortified silence on Victor’s part. Selina’s moment of silence was spent with her hand firmly over her mouth, trying to keep from laughing. The image of grumpy Victor Fries as Hades, Lord of the Underworld, was still fantastic. Jesus, this was almost as good as the time 12-year-old Jason Todd had managed to tie 17-year-old Dick Grayson’s shoelaces together, and the gymnast had faceplanted onto the pavement. 

Jason Todd was such a little shit. It was probably why she liked him so much.

“And Artemis, really, you have to play more nicely with your suitors. Else you’ll attract someone dangerous. One that will enjoy your harsh play a little too much . . .”

“Did you miss the part where I’m doing Batman?” She asked, a little incredulous. “That pretty much defines ‘dangerous,’ ‘bad idea,’ and ‘really fucking hot,’ all at the same time.”

“Can we  _ please _ stop talking about Batman in bed?” Fries whined.

“Not if our other option is Greek Pantheon Quiz,” Selina snarked back. 

“And just  _ who _ is Batman?” Maxie asked, and there was another one of those long, uncomfortable silences. Maxie had never forgotten Batman before. Even in the depths of his madness, he had never forgotten the one who had fought him on the outside, returned him after his escape attempts, and whose shadow lingered over Arkham Asylum like a shroud. 

Even Victor was stunned. “You don’t . . . recall Batman?”

“Should I?” Maxie roared. He really only had two volumes: meek, and screaming his fool head off, Selina thought. 

“Why should I care about foreign gods?” He continued. “For all I know he is no different to the painted upstart who has taken over Mount Olympus!”

“Oh, M—I mean, Dad, no,” Selina said. “He’s a good guy, really. He’s always fighting and defeating the uh, Foreign Upstart God.”

Yes, she had begun thinking of Joker as Foreign Upstart God. With all caps, and everything. There was  _ nothing else to do. _

“Then why do I not know of him? Why did he not address me, the god of gods, for the honor of courting my daughter?”

“Your priorities really need to be worked on, Dad.”

Once again, Victor saved the day. “Batman is simply one of the names the mortals call him. He is the god Terminus, the master of boundaries. He defines the beginnings and the ends of all things, and keeps all of us—gods, mortals, and those in between—in their proper places.”

Selina was hella impressed. Extensive knowledge of Greco-Roman mythology aside, this was the most talkative Victor had been since she’d been thrown down here, and she wasn’t so naive as to misunderstand why. Maxie was losing it, and with the acoustics of this hell hole, they’d have front row seats to the inevitable breakdown. Particularly as Maxie had an issue with volume control, as she’d already determined.

“I see,” Maxie said, mollified. “In that case, it is an honor to be this god’s consort. Is this what you truly wish, Daughter?”

“Yes,” she admitted, more honestly than was prudent, particularly with two other villains in earshot. “ _ Yes.” _

…

…

…

  
  


Hours later, after they had not been fed and Maxie had mumbled himself to sleep, Selina called out quietly, “Hey, Victor?”

When he did not respond, she continued anyway. “Thank you. For before, with uh. ‘Dad.’”

She hadn’t expected him to reply, so when he finally did it startled her out of a light doze. “Our time down here is a marathon, not a sprint. Without his medication, I fear it will be a short one.”

Great. Victor Fries was preparing her for the eventual madness and possible death of Maxie Zeus, and they were helpless to do anything to stop it. This was her life now, and Selina really,  _ really, _ hated the Joker, and Harley too because that little bitch hadn’t shown up in  _ five days. _

“At least you know more about his . . . pantheon than I do,” she said glumly, feeling a lot like crying. “Hell, if not for you, I wouldn’t even know which one Artemis was.”

It was quiet for a time, in which Selina tried to go to sleep but it just wouldn’t come. Maybe it was all the naps she was taking. 

Eventually, Victor broke the silence. “Why does Batman not come, Selina?”

“I don’t know!” She said in a rush, frustration making her honest. “He has to know the island has been taken over. He  _ always _ knows. Something must have happened to—to delay him.”

“He might not know this time,” Victor argued. “Supplies are still arriving, and the Gotham City Police have not descended on the island en masse. I fear that the Commissioner may be taken in by Joker’s deception. If he does not warn Batman, you may be here for quite some time.”

Selina hesitated. Something felt wrong. Some nebulous thought or worry that she was unable to catch hold of, let alone define. It was probably connected to Bruce, and her mounting fear that amounted to  _ why the hell hadn’t he crashed this party, already,  _ but for a moment she thought it was connected to something more specific. Police, maybe? They always monopolized Batman’s time, and if there was a situation outside Arkham, maybe that was why he wasn’t here yet?

It didn’t feel right, but she just didn’t have enough to go on.

“B has to have some sort of tracker on the island. Maybe on some of the more high profile inmates,” she hypothesized. It’s not like she knew for certain, but she also suspected he had at least one on her, somehow. “He has to know. He’ll get here, Victor, and then he’ll set everything right.”

“Why has he not done so  _ already?” _

Selina closed her eyes and chased down the fear that threatened to swamp her. She could not run from her past, her failures, or herself in here, and the stagnation was making it so hard to be strong.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I’m trying not to think about that.”

…

…

…

…

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize if I inadvertently quote the Joker from the Arkham Asylum game. I know he’s said, ‘Joker here!’ and ‘It’s meeeeeeee,’ and a whole bunch of other fun things (‘You bring the wine . . . I’ll make the salad) but I’m not looking up dialogue to quote. Obviously you know where it comes from if I accidentally do quote him!
> 
> Also, Aaron Cash is absolutely my favorite side character from the Arkham Asylum game. Why else you do play those games but to deal with his never ending frustration? The man doesn’t get rattled, he just gets annoyed. Lose his hand to Killer Croc? Yell at Killer Croc. See Batman saving everyone? Yell at Batman to do side quests.   
> Love that man. 
> 
> Also I am intentionally having Dr. Crane call Harley ‘Miss Quinn’ rather than Dr. Quinn, because that brings to mind that show of my childhood, Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman, and I just can’t. I could not.   
>  Forgive me. It was beyond my abilities.


	4. Olympus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh. Well I’ve got my weeping hanky out if you know what I mean.
> 
> Trigger warnings: Non main character tortured to death. Not super graphic, but sad. Read end notes for identity, and how it ties in to the actual game.

  
  


**June 26th 20xx**

**Medical Laboratory, 3:57 AM**

**Day 6**

Dr. Elliot frowned as the PA system in the emergency room crackled to life. He’d hoped that by starting his work early he’d have a few blessed hours of peace and quiet. Not so, apparently.

“Good morning, everyone! I, Warden Joker, have an announcement. A _ hem.  _ Fiiiiirst, I’d like to congratulate the three current winners of Death Tag, whose names, I have been told, are Hound, Killer, and Brian. Not sure what their mothers were going for with names like that, but we’re not here to judge! Particularly as I’ve seen who I assume is Killer in action and let me tell you. Hoooooo  _ boy _ can that one move!”

Hush rolled his eyes before directing his attention back to the unresponsive body on the gurney. It had been a tough 24 hours for Edward Nygma, but it wasn’t over yet. Wouldn’t be until he either died or recovered, and from the amount of cranial damage he’d sustained, Hush knew he was doing him no favors by keeping him alive. 

Joker’s announcement continued as Hush worked. “Allllllso, I’d like to direct everyone’s attention to the new game starting up today. It’s called Harley with a Hammer, and let me tell you it’s going to be  _ loads _ of fun for the entire family! Well, or maybe just Harley and me, but hell! What do I care? Fun’s fun!”

Joker laughed and laughed, and Hush sewed up an incision. His tools were sterile, the room was clean. His half of the Medical Center was 30 years and 2 renovations more modern than Crane’s half. It had been common sense to split the Med Center up this way, as Hush had been tasked with collaborating with the surviving doctors to keep Joker’s pets alive, alongside his own personal experiments. Crane, who had been let loose to tinker with his fear toxin on the lunatics in Cell Block D6, had argued that the older, subterranean rooms would more than suit his purpose. 

At this moment, Hush was distantly grateful. As long as infection didn’t set in, the Riddler stood a . . . well, it was barely a chance at all, but a chance of surviving nonetheless.

At least, until the next time the Joker snapped and beat him half to death with a tire iron.

“Lastly, just a reminder to good old Dr. Tommy. Do your  _ best _ to keep my dear pet the Riddler alive. His passing might make Bats  _ sad,  _ and none of us want that! Oh, he’d be so disappointed with me if I let Eddie duck out of the party early!”

The Joker’s tone was light, but Hush understood the inherent threat. “Understood,” he murmured, although there was no way the Joker could hear him, as evidenced by the cessation of the PA announcement. 

Hush sighed, and wished the Joker were not so mercurial. If he wanted his toys in good condition, don’t beat them to death, next time.

Edward twitched against the table, and Hush eyed the table with a few samples of an experimental concoction. It might help him heal exponentially quickly, if Penelope’s notes were of any use. As madness and a severely shortened lifespan were already in the cards, why not try it out on his patient?

Why not? He had nothing to lose . . . and it might just work.

  
  
  


**June 26th 20xx**

**Resistance Bunker, 4:28 AM**

**Day 6**

The team sent in for the notes ended up being Joan, because it was her office and she was the only one who had a hope of finding them; Aaron, because even though he’d returned her shoelaces he couldn’t stop stalking her  _ now;  _ Zach, because he was the best shot of all the guards on the island, ambidextrous and everything, and Eddie, who had looked at them so earnestly with his big, brown, puppy eyes that no one could refuse him.

Bill North was left in charge of the Resistance, and Aaron had a quiet, yet animated conversation before they set out. Joan didn’t know what it was about, but decided it wasn’t worth it to ask. She was more involved in studying the blueprints and tunnel paths for the umpteenth time, making sure she knew the route like the back of her hand. 

“Visualize success, and it will be yours,” Zach murmured to her, nodding at the blueprints of the tunnels she was clutching. “You know the tunnels. You know the plan. You know your office, and you know where the notes are. Focus on the end result, and it will happen.”  
Joan looked at him, impressed. Is that how he approached his job, here? His life? No wonder he was one of the more successful members of the security team. “That’s very good advice, thank you, Zach.”

He shrugged, modestly. “My daughter’s a yoga instructor, and that’s what she tells her classes. I figure if she can get people to fold their legs behind their head like they are some kind of goddamn pretzel, she must know what she’s talking about.”

“Oh, Laverne’s classes are really good,” Eddie earnestly assured her. “Especially the hot room ones.”

“You like the ones where she cranks up the room to 100 degrees?” Zach asked. “Good lord, son, she had her mother and I do that once and we thought we were gonna die!”

“But it makes you feel so flexible and in tune with yourself, afterwards!”

“You take yoga?” Joan asked Eddie.  _ And the men here don’t rip you to shreds over it?  _ Went unsaid.

He nodded enthusiastically. “Oh, yeah. Twice a week, when I can. It’s great!”

“When we’re all done gossipping, do you think we could get a move on?” Aaron snapped, clearly in a lather to get moving. “Some of us have a death run to carry out.”

Zach made after him immediately, but Joan caught Eddie’s arm.

“You don’t think we could drag Aaron to one of those yoga classes, do you?” She muttered.

Eddie’s eyes widened. “Down dog would be pretty hard with only one hand. But if  _ you _ were to ask him, I’m pretty sure he’d try.”

…

…

…

Joan tried not to think of Eddie’s assurance during their long trek through the tunnels. Why he was so sure she had any sway over Aaron was laughable, particularly after the events of the last week, when it was proven that he was bound and determined to do whatever he thought best. Sure, they were friends outside the asylum, and she was always a guest to his cookouts and barbecues and other family functions, but that was more because she was childhood friends with his wife, Letitia. She was also Daniel’s godmother, and had usually looked forward to spending at least one major holiday with the Cash family, whether it was Easter, Thanksgiving, or Christmas, depending on her work schedule. Truth be told, never a week went by where she didn’t see Aaron for at least an hour, whether at work or socially, and she’d long stopped feeling guilty for seeing Letitia far less, these days. 

Most of the other guards knew this, and those that were close to Aaron had seen her at those family events, or observed their friendly camaraderie at the asylum. That had to be why Eddie thought she had some sway over him. That, or he thought her profession might render her more capable of talking Aaron into doing something he obviously did not want to do. 

Eddie was clearly not taking Aaron’s personality into account. The man’s stubbornness was legendary, and there was very little talking him into that which he did not already want to do. Again, Joan knew this from both the asylum and his home, and was encapsulated by an argument she’d had with Letitia several years ago. It had been just after he had lost his left hand to Killer Croc, and his wife hadn’t understood his drive to go back to work only days after he’d been discharged from the hospital.

_ “What the hell is wrong with that man?” Lettie had raged, charging up and down her immaculately tidy, one-story house. “He’s just lost one hand to that monster, does he want to lose his fool head, too?” _

_ “If he stays away he’ll be perceived as weak,” Joan had tried to explain. She hadn’t been Aaron’s re-entry interviewer—one of the few good mandates in place when it came to employee accidents in an otherwise toxic job—but Gretchen had filled her in on a few specifics, just to settle her own anxiety. “He’s earned his position through a mixture of intelligence, strength, fairness, and a removed empathy, but also because he is reliable. The prisoners have come to respect him, and if he cannot get back in the saddle now, he may lose all he’s worked for.” _

_ “And why’s he working so damn hard for it, hmmm?” Letitia had challenged her. “He’s been offered other jobs. Safer jobs. Better paying jobs! Why the hell is he sticking around in that hell hole?” _

_ Joan, who could not imagine Arkham without him, had bristled. “He makes a difference, Lettie. He is saving lives and helping people.” _

_ “And is that all he’s doing?” Her friend had said, jabbing a finger at her. “Really, Joan?” _

_ Joan had come off a bad week, and was still shaken at seeing Aaron in the hospital, sans hand, drugged beyond sense just to deal with the pain and shock. Not knowing what Letitia was talking about, she had said some regrettable things. The crux of it was true, however: Letitia had never understood Aaron or his work, and by asking him to give it up, she was asking him to give himself up for her.  _

_ “And why shouldn’t he?” Lettie had screeched at the end of Joan’s tirade. “He married me! Married.  _ Me!”

_ Joan had not physically struck Letitia since they were kindergarten, when Lettie’s desire to be made much of, Joan’s burgeoning obsession with understanding everyone, and inefficient time allotment for the rice box had all been factors leading up to the slap heard round the playroom. Joan did not hit her friend again that evening, but it was a near thing, and a solid month of frozen conversations might never have thawed had Danny not found a way, via his school play of all things, to bring them back together. _

Back in the real world, Joan stepped on something brittle. It crunched beneath her feet and she looked down at something white. Her heart skipped a beat, thinking it was bone . . . but a second glance told her it was calcified rock. Next to it, however, was a scattered handful of playing cards, a few scraps of tattered fabric, and an ulna.

“Oh, Jesus,” she murmured, and she had an urge, born of a Catholic childhood, to cross herself. “There  _ are _ bones down here!”

Eddie patted her back and she stumbled on after Zach. People had absolutely died down here, she belatedly realized. It was sheer luck that not every inmate on the island knew about the tunnels—or knew the paths well enough to hide long enough to enact an escape plan. While the supervillains that terrorized Gotham may have used these tunnels a time or two—and thinking back of all the hare-brained escape plans over the last decade, it really was only a time or two—the average joes of the criminal underworld had to make do with traversing the labyrinth below the island. Those who could used their outside connections, or the pull they had on doctors, guards, orderlies, and cleaning staff inside the asylum.

_ Something has to change,  _ she decided, and it was with all the force and power of the life-changing decision that had her change her major from biology to psychology, in her last year of university.  _ And if I survive to do it, I will make this change. _

_ … _

_ … _

_ … _

By the time they reached the end of the tunnel closest to her office, Joan’s watch showed 6:49 AM. As far as they could tell, Joker had not changed much of the schedule in terms of breakfast and day-to-day matters—for instance, the inmates still slept in their cells every night, the only difference was that the doors were unlocked—and that meant that breakfast would be served from 7-8:30. The mouth of the tunnel, which opened behind a false wall of an old cleaning closet just down the hall from her room, was about 25 steps away from her office door. If they were quick and very, very lucky, they could be in and out without anyone seeing them. If they were only very lucky, there would be a fight, but they would be able to take them without any losses.

Joan, who did not have a weapon, felt understandably nervous about that. She watched Aaron check the fit of his hook before hoisting his pistol from his hip holster.

He looked at every person in the closet except for her. “Ready?”

“Yes, sir,” Eddie murmured.

Zach merely nodded, gripping his pistols. There were only four pistols, and Louie had the last. Everyone else made do with the three semi’s from storage, one of which was in Eddie’s hold.

He toed open the closet door, peeking out through the crack. “No one east,” he whispered. “Let’s go, guns west.”

The two other guards shifted minutely, and then Aaron threw the door open, back to the hallway, gun pointed towards the other end of the hallway. After a moment he gestured with his head for them to follow.

“Way’s clear. Let’s go. Eddie, cover the doc.”

They were fairly sure this hallway wasn’t monitored. Joan and the other doctors had put their foot down about being watched themselves like rats in a lab test. The lack of security cameras had allowed Kellerman to sleep in his office rather than call a taxi home, and for Joan to discreetly meet with Poison Ivy at three in the morning without detection, thus they were fairly sure it was safe. Still, they weren’t about to take any chances, so Joan threw her coat over her head, hiding her features as she stumbled after Zach. Not being able to see anything other than what was right in front of her was horrifying. The world shrunk to Zach’s legs and boots, and the frantic boom of her heart. There was a hand on her arm and she jumped, but then she looked at it and recognized the blunt nails, the surprisingly long fingers, the skin tone. Aaron was guiding her to the door, and she felt less frightened. 

_ Damn it, Joan, just damn it all,  _ she thought, as she fit the keys to the door, hand trembling. That it was still locked was an excellent sign, as was the lack of any goons within. It meant she wasn’t on their radar, and that they hadn’t connected her to Project Empathy. 

The keys fitted in the lock and she turned it quickly, pushing the door open in a well-practiced motion. They all hustled inside, and Eddie and Zach took up stations flanking the door, hugging the wall, staring down opposite ends of the hallway. She and Aaron surged for her desk, and the first thing she did was unlock the desk drawer with her effects. She pocketed her reading glasses and took up her tablet but left her wallet—she had nowhere near enough money on her to bribe even the most desperate prisoner—and then rifled through her paper notes. Tearing out three pages that obliquely mentioned ‘Project E,’ she left the notes in the desk, just in case. She placed the tablet on top of the laptop and moved on.

“Hurry it up, Joan,” Aaron murmured to her.

She was already moving to the bookshelf. “Just a minute,” she whispered back. Removing three books seemingly at random, she flipped them open to reveal several data discs. Here was contained the early stages of her project, and what she had already sent out to collaborators across America and overseas.

“We need to break these, my tablet, and the laptop,” she said. “Well enough that no data can be extracted.” It was a thankful thing that her laptop’s charger had been going kaput even before the takeover. Her laptop would have died in hours, well before anyone thought to access it to check if there was any information floating about in the interweb.

Aaron took the files and stuck them in his pocket. “Back at the bunker, otherwise we’ll be overheard. Keep moving.”

Joan went back to her task, pulling several journals from the shelves. She rifled through her desk drawers for a few loose doodles she had done on the project, and after five minutes, had it all. At least, she hoped she had it all. It was hard to think clearly when the pressure was on, but she couldn’t remember anything else, and she had been careful to keep all her information in one of three places. 

She placed all her papers on the middle of her linoleum floor. Aaron tossed her a lighter, and she set the pile of papers on fire. It was then that Eddie shifted nervously.

“We got incoming. Three from my side.”

The fire crept higher. Joan stood to stamp it out but Aaron pushed her back. “Behind the desk,” he ordered her. “Close your eyes.”

Joan nodded and ducked behind her desk, thanking God it was so damned big. Poking her head out from the corner, she saw Aaron crouch down so he’d not be immediately visible from the window on her door. Zach pocketed his pistols and pulled out a switchblade.  _ He must have picked it up off the body of an inmate, _ she thought, before she could hear the goons outside.

“Hey, do you guys smell something?”

“What, your ass? Yeah, I’ve been suffering for the last couple days.”

“No, like smoke—holy shit! There’s a fire in Leland’s office!”

One of them scoffed. “It’s just a  _ little _ fire. Back in my day—”

“Put it out, dumbass!”

“But how’d it get there?”

“Who cares? Just go and stamp it out!”

“I’m not going in there! I hate fire!”

“Oh, is that why you’ve been giving Firefly the side eye?”

One of the groaned, clearly done with this. “Jesus, you pussy. We all go in, happy? C’mon.”

There was a clatter at the door, and it swung open. Eddie and Zach moved with impressive synchronization, and each grabbed the goon closest to them, shoving them inside the room. The third, who had been just behind them, tried to run—but Zach had set all the sprinting records from his high school and hadn’t lost much speed in the subsequent years. The last henchman was caught and dragged back in the office before he made it five steps, and after making only one strangled call for help. 

Back inside the office, Joan watched as Aaron caught one of the hapless goons and neatly slit his throat with his hook. Eddie threatened the other with his gun, while Zach made quick work of the other with his blade, stabbing him in the kidney, and then as he fell, slicing his throat, as well. The last, perhaps knowing that the gunfire would bring hundreds of inmates to investigate, decided to push his luck. He charged Aaron. Brawling like a street fighter, he landed a couple good hits on Aaron’s face and chest, before Aaron managed to get him in a chokehold. He held it for a long time, enough for the inmate to stop kicking and struggling, his face splotching red. Joan closed her eyes as the inmate died, more slowly and painfully than the others had.

When she opened them again Eddie was carrying her laptop and tablet, and Zach had the semi-automatic. The fire was just about burned out, and the papers were grey ash. Aaron was in front of her, looking down at her with what was, for just one moment, an expression of sheer misery. 

“We have to go, Joan,” he said, and out of habit, extended his hand.

Joan looked at it for a moment, and then back at him. She could still hear the choking gasps of the dead henchman, and the ease with which he had killed the other. Her skin should crawl at the thought of touching him. She should stand on her own and then be horrified to the depths of her soul. 

Yet she was none of those things, and what did that make her?

_ A foolish, godforsaken woman,  _ Joan decided, and reached up and took his hand, gripping it firmly. 

**June 26th 20xx**

**Greenhouse, 2:15 PM**

**Day 6**

Ivy sat on a throne of her babies, watching closely, waiting carefully. Through her darlings she was accomplishing the former, spying through a network of their awareness to keep an eye on Harley. The latter was accomplished merely by remaining still . . . and by directing the growth of several of her more aggressive lovelies. 

Both activities gave her notable pleasure, but only one had a sense of urgency attached. Harley was, as far as she could tell, being treated surprisingly well. The Joker was making much of her, a sure sign that it would go badly soon, but not yet. The very activity she was watching was an example of his ‘regard’ for her—a new addition to his horrifying array of ‘games.’ It said something about the tenacity of the players that the ‘tag’ game was still continuing strong, with only four winners and twenty seven dead over the past week. 

As for his other array of ‘Joker Games,’ no one had approached her, of course, because to do so was death. Nor had the Ratcatcher been bothered, possibly because everyone, good or evil, hated rats. As for the others . . . Harvey and his men had a difficult time of it, killing off those who came after his beloved coin; the overgrown man-child had no toys left, and Crane was down exactly one vial of fear formula . . . but the winner of that challenge had chosen to give  _ Harley _ a lap dance, apparently, and that had so amused the Joker that the goon had somehow been promoted because of it. 

Ivy made no attempt to understand the ridiculousness of humanity. It simply wasn’t worth it.

The newest game, however, gave her pause. Entitled, ‘Harley with a Hammer,’ it consisted of—so far as she could tell—Harley running around the room with a mallet, beating on henchmen indiscriminately. If one stole the mallet from Harley they could hit  _ her _ with it . . . but the Joker watched the whole thing, and very few people were brave enough to hit his girlfriend in front of him. Particularly when he was blowing her kisses, and crooning morbid lyrics to made-up love songs to her over the speaker. 

It was this display Ivy was watching now. So far, Harley was destroying the room, giggling madly all the while. And while Ivy was grateful that no one was doing her harm, there was a tension in her belly that spoke of impending doom. Things were going too well. They couldn’t last, not when Harley was romantically tied to the incarnation of chaos. This was simply the lift before the fall, and the longer the Joker delayed his savage mistreatment of Harley—inevitable as spring following winter—the worse it would be. 

Of course, then would be her chance to try and convince Harley to take the serum. If only she knew where it was! Joan might have known where it was, but it was more likely that Cash did, or one of their colleagues who spent more time in the Medical Center. Penelope Young, the opportunistic little whore, would no doubt have jumped at the chance to move the materials after Warden Sharp had ended the project, but Zsasz had killed her days ago. Now that she was dead and Cash and Joan were off the grid, there was no one on the island who might know where the serum was.

This did mean the Joker didn’t know either, but that was a slim comfort. He would know eventually. Ivy knew from years’ experience that he always found out the one thing you needed him not to know. In this case, he’d likely find the damn formula, give it to Harley as a guinea pig, and then she’d be even  _ more _ bound to him, particularly if he wasn’t a total asshole to her directly afterwards.

Ivy sighed. If only Jon—

Her thoughts were interrupted by an uninvited guest to her greenhouse. Her babies in the Atrium’s silent shriek of fear was not the only warning. She watched on the security monitors she’d had some ‘boyfriends’ lift from the control room as Firefly stalked into the main room, hefting his equipment as he scanned the room, clearly gauging where to begin.

“Come on, you bastard,” Ivy murmured. “Take five more steps.”

She’d laid a trap for him two days ago by catching and seducing two of his most useful sources. He didn’t have henchmen the way the major players did, but he had ‘friends’ in most of the big groups. Taking those two out with a kiss in one day was just Ivy’s way of saying hello, as well as to punish him for torturing all of the greenery near the front gate of the Asylum. It was a veritable  _ wasteland  _ there now, and his reign of terror could not be allowed to continue.

Truly, she was doing the entire asylum a favor by curtailing his pyromania. 

He took two steps forward, cautious. He’d scoffed at the notion that she could communicate with her plants—so many did, the foolish apes—but he was still hesitant about her power. If she were in the room this would have been a very different game. Although he wore a mask, it did not have the chemical filtering properties of Scarecrow’s, and even if it did, it would provide no protection at all from her calling upon the massive vines that had slowly begun to take over the island—her long term project that she was able to accomplish from within her isolation bubble in the Green Mile. Once a Plan D for escaping the asylum, it was now a useful reminder to the male players in Joker’s regime. Cross Ivy not, or her vines would cross  _ you. _

Back in the atrium, Firefly seemed to have decided that Ivy wasn’t presently there, and thus he wasn’t at risk. He took two more steps forward, so that he was nearly within range of her evolved pitcher plant. Without the recognizable ‘spikes’ of the venus fly trap, no one knew it was a carnivorous plant. No one feared it, even though it was five feet tall and three feet wide. It helped that the mouth of the plant was facing at a diagonal slant toward the ceiling, rather than directly towards its prey.

Firefly hefted his equipment toward a gorgeous array of night blooming ‘Casa Blanca’ lilies, and took that final, requisite step toward the pitcher plant.

The only warning was the creak of the plant’s fibrous material. The pitcher plant swiveled quickly, and used its filiform appendage to scoop Firefly into its cup-shaped belly. Firefly struggled and used his flamethrower, but Ivy had been very smart and careful in breeding this particular darling. A thin veneer of non-flammable liquid coated the inside of the pitcher’s plant’s body, and the filiform appendage, the cap which kept its prey within, was stronger and heavier than steel bars.

The digestive liquid within—usually non-fatal to humans, but not after Ivy got through with it—made efficient work of the screaming, still-fighting Firefly. It took several minutes for the acid to wear through his uniform, but once it did, his screams became more vehement before tapering off entirely.

It only took 15 minutes. 20, tops.

As soon as she was reasonably sure Firefly was dead, she slunk through her lair, using the power of her babies to cross great chasms and otherwise impassable areas. Within minutes she was standing in the center of her atrium, frowning at the muddy footprints Firefly had tracked in. She stroked the body of her pitcher plant lovingly, knowing not everything on Firefly had been on the menu. Several minutes later, its body quivered, it’s filiform appendage opened . . . and it burped up what little remained of Firefly’s equipment that it couldn’t digest.

“Oh, you magnificent darling,” she cooed to her bloodthirsty flora. “You took care of that nasty man for me, didn’t you? Was he tasty? Oh, I bet he was . . .”

After she felt her baby had been made much of, and more than thanked for services rendered—it had to eat  _ something _ after all— Ivy turned her attention to the remains. She wasn’t worried about being caught out. Not with Joker’s ‘three men a day’ rule he’d set for her. He wasn’t all that fond of Firefly either, twitchy little firebug that he was. No, it was her own morbid interest that caused her to crouch down to investigate the partially digested skull, the only human remains left. 

One eye socket remained intact, and the mouth had lost its lower jaw, leaving it open in an endless, silent scream. Ivy cocked her head, and wondered if it was whole enough to mount at the front door, to keep bored henchman out of her domain. The integrity was too damaged, she suspected, and she wasn’t sure it would work in any case. 

Such thoughts did not disgust her in the least. Her sense of empathy did not extend to Firefly, nor to most of the survivors on the island.  _ I doubt I would have cared even before my change _ , she thought.  _ Perhaps I did not change as much as Jonathan thought . . . _

  
  


**_December 18th, 20xx_ **

**_The Green Mile, 2:38 AM_ **

**_(7 months prior to takeover)_ **

  
  


_ Ivy’s first ‘session’ with Dr. Crane took place a month after his agreement to help. They were to have met two weeks earlier—he had already given her a broad template to work from, and several synthetics he suggested she begin manipulating—but it was also two weeks after the Joker had successfully escaped Arkham, in a breakout that left three guards and one janitor dead, and five more guards and one doctor injured.  _

_ Now that the asylum had recovered its equilibrium, it was the time to pay the piper, and Ivy watched quietly as Cash brought Dr. Crane into the room, wearing his straightjacket but sitting unchained to a chair set up just outside her bubble’s curve. _

_ “You got half an hour,” Cash said brusquely, taking up his place at the door that led to the cell blocks. The other led to Extreme Incarceration, from which there was no escape. He was far enough that he wouldn’t overhear them if they spoke quietly, but not too far that he couldn’t react if Crane lost it. _

_ “Thank you, Aaron,” Ivy said politely. She hadn’t had a chance to sink her hooks into him, and wondered how effective her pheromones on him would even be. His interlude with Croc showed incredible courage and strength, and his willingness to come to work every day proved equally impressive stamina and endurance. Still, it didn’t hurt to lull him into a sense of false security. _

_ From the amused glint in Crane’s eye, he knew what she was about. _

_ He cleared his throat before saying, “Doctor Isley, if we could begin—” _

_ That wouldn’t do. “Pamela, please,” she interrupted him. “I do not enjoy being called Dr. Isley.” _

_ He cocked his head to the side. “Your doctorate was well earned. You were very well regarded in your field. Why does your title bother you?” _

_ There was a vivid flash of memory: Dr. Woodrue breathing hotly on her neck, and stabbing pain down below. His bruising grip on her wrists, and the searing fire of the serum that pulsed through her blood . . . and the mocking way he called her Doctor Isley, all throughout the indignity he had visited upon her person.  _

_ Ivy inhaled, reaching for her babies below the bubble, taking comfort in the warm, mindlessness of their existence. “I simply don’t like it. I prefer my given name.” _

_ “I prefer something a little less personal,” he countered. “Is Miss Isley acceptable?” _

_ “Is Professor Crane?” She asked, vaguely curious to see which title he preferred. _

_ The corner of his mouth quirked upward, and she could not tell if it was from amusement or long-suffering annoyance. “Harley calls me that. I was her professor, once. You may call me that if you wish. Now, to begin—”  _

_ “You want to know my fears, yes—” _

_ “No, no, let me be the psychologist here, Miss Isley.” He said, a mild reprimand in his tone. “We have some time now that the Joker has escaped the asylum. I’ve no doubt that Harley will stage her own attempt eventually, which will affect the parameters of the project, but while she is injured and unable to do so, I’d prefer to move carefully.” _

He’d hate to miss something when this might be his only shot at her fears, _ Ivy thought ruefully.  _ Let no one ever say he was magnanimous, or concerned with doing the right thing. “ _ All right,” she agreed. “Where shall we begin?” _

_ The beginning was somewhat cliche, apparently. “Where did you grow up? What was your family life like?” _

_ She blinked, a little surprised at the banality of the line of inquiry, but answered readily enough. “I grew up in Washington D.C, to distant parents. My mother was a wealthy socialite with a love for opera and travel, and I wouldn’t see her for weeks at a time. My father was a radiologist from Georgia, who dabbled in biochemistry. When he remembered I was alive—he tended towards utter absorption in his projects—he would make an effort to connect with me, but for the most part, I was left alone with my plants.” She smiled. “Even as a child, I knew what the superior form of life was.” _

_ Had he a clipboard, or even an arm free, Ivy felt he would have been industriously scribbling away, right now. “And would you say you were happy as a child?” He asked. _

_ Ivy snorted. “Were any of us?” _

_ Crane raised an eyebrow. “Enlighten me, please.” _

_ “No,” she admitted. “I was miserable and antisocial. Boys liked me, and I didn’t much care. I didn’t understand them, or  _ people  _ for the most part, and did not wish to.” _

_ He let that be, and there was nothing in his expression that spoke of surprise. He expected all these answers, or perhaps was only asking them to set her at ease. “And in university?” He asked. “I know you completed all your degrees from Seattle University with full scholarship . . .” _

_ If he knew where she studied, he no doubt knew who with. Ivy exhaled quickly through her nose. It didn’t matter; she was going to tell him everything anyway. “I went to Seattle and studied botanical chemistry under Dr. Jason Woodrue. It was . . . his experiment that made me what I am today.” _

_ He leaned forward, every so lightly; eyes lit. Like a shark who smelled blood in the water, his attention was fixed on her. He’d caught the faintest of hesitations, the hushed echo of her avoidance of Woodrue. From  _ her _ who was no longer a human being! _

Joan was right. He is dangerous _ , Pamela thought.  _ But so am I.

_ In opposition to his alert body language, Crane’s voice was calm, relaxed, with just a hint of a southern drawl to put her at ease. “I met Dr. Woodrue at a convention once,” he offered. “Noxious man, although he seemed intelligent enough. I spent the evening at the canape table, coaxing him into revealing his fears. He was, consequently, afraid of a rather common insect: the praying mantis.” His light eyes flicked up to observe her. “I’d also venture that he was . . . unnerved by female superiority. I imagine you were not his favorite pupil.” _

_ Ivy knew he was building a rapport with her, even as he was subtly poking the edges of her emotional foundations. Even the faint accent could be because she had said her father was from Georgia. He could suspect part or all of Woodrue’s treatment of her, but he couldn’t know. Not yet. She had to move forward, and be brave and not remember Woodrue’s breath on her face, or the pain administered at his hands . . . as well as other parts. _

_ “No, but it didn’t matter,” she replied. “I was top of the class and my minor was in toxicology. I found ways to make his projects work, no matter how badly we got on, personally.” _

_ “Made them work in more ways than one, it would seem.” Crane said, and his visual perusal of her changed body was ironic, rather than lecherous.  _

_ She looked down at herself, seeing the alien, green hue of her skin, her nails dark like the bark of a tree. Everything had changed—her voice, her thoughts, her body, her blood, her brain. All because of Woodrue, his experiments, and his mingled hatred and desire for her. _

_ “I don’t regret my change,” she said, after a moment of quiet. “It was painful and frightening to become this, I won’t pretend that it wasn’t. But I am what I am. The pain and fear of my human body are far behind me, now, and in the end, all it really did was give a physical delineation to my connection with  _ plantae _ , and my disconnect from humanity.”  _

_ A moment later, she smirked. “Besides, new insight into the awareness of my babies is incredibly useful, don’t you think?” _

_ “And the pheromonal discharge?” Crane asked, dryly. “I fail to see how that benefits your plants.” _

_ “I will admit I never quite understood how that factored into Woodrue’s experiment,” Ivy lied. She knew exactly why he’d done that, and it had all been a failed attempt to seduce  _ her.  _ “The best I can figure is that he must have used DNA strands from plants that mimic such behavior, whether to attract bees, other cross-pollinators, or perhaps even a food source. That it works the way it currently does may be because I am still part  _ animalia. _ ” _

_ “Are you still mammalian?” Crane asked, in what could be for him, a moment of unguarded and not entirely useful curiosity.  _

_ Ivy made a face. “The doctors have assured me this is so. I highly doubt I could become pregnant at this point—I’m not viable with any species of plant or animal—but were I to meet and mate with a man entirely like me, I would carry and birth my young just as a human woman would, rather than seed them.” _

_ Crane leaned back in his chair, his expression blank. Ivy swallowed down her smirk. She had answered his question in that particular way expressly to make him uncomfortable. Men in Arkham, even self-titled ‘Masters of Fear’, did not generally enjoy hearing about childbirth, or the carrying of young.  _

Men were also weak, _ Ivy decided, and settled back for the inevitable return to Woodrue. _

_ But Crane surprised her. “To paraphrase, Woodrue’s experiment turned you from a human doctor into an animal-plant hybrid; a veritable species of your own with no hope of passing on your genes, attributes, or power. You choose to live as an eco-terrorist with the ability to manipulate plant life, and are often in direct opposition with humanity itself. You are alone in your cell in Arkham due to your pheromonal control, and you are almost equally alone when you are free—adrift in the putrid sea of humanity. Did I miss anything?” _

_ Ivy could understand his intent to marginalize, anger, and then subtly connect with her with a surety that surprised her. She had not read people so well when she was one, herself. How was she able to do so now? _

_ “I cannot say otherwise. But how am I any different than you?” She asked. “Apart from the shift in species, could not that argument be presented to you? You are also a terrorist, in the purest sense of the term. You have turned your back on humanity, and you use a powerful, primal emotion to control those around you.” _

_ “There is a vast and treacherous ocean between fear and desire, Ms. Isley,” Crane reprimanded her. _

_ “Fear and desire are fundamentally opposed, perhaps, but they are linked in their purpose—to manipulate one into behaving along certain parameters,” she argued. “It could be argued they are the proverbial carrot and the stick.” _

_ “My goal is not simply control or punishment,” Crane stressed, losing his icy control for the first time all session. “I want to learn every aspect of fear. My desire to understand it completely, totally, and fully has not dimmed, not even when . . .” He glanced to the right, just beyond her shoulder. “Not even when I am Scarecrow.” _

_ There it was again, that strange dichotomy. “Aren’t you always Scarecrow?”  _

_ Crane went very still, and his thin lips quirked in a small, mirthless smile. “Oh no, Ms. Isley,” he said quietly. “You’ll know when I am him.” _

  
  
  


**June 26th 20xx**

**Extreme Incarceration, 8:16 PM**

**Day 6**

It was probably not a good sign when that shithead Wesker and his dinner trolly was accompanied by the Scarecrow, the Joker, and a bunch of the enormously muscled clown-faced goons. It was absolutely not a good sign when they dragged Maxie out of his cell, strapped him down to the main floor, and then made their merry way to the central control tower, where they would be safe from and control the electric currents that acted as a deterrent for escape.

“Oh, don’t you dare, you motherfuckers,” Selina hissed as she gripped the two, small bars of her cell window. “Joker!” She cried out, louder. “Let him go! He’s done nothing to you!”

“Be still, my daughter!” Maxie cried out, not sounding at all upset about the current proceedings. “The Foreign Upstart God’s pretensions will take him nowhere. For I am  _ Zeus,  _ god of lightning, and supreme ruler of—”

There was an audible  _ bzzt _ as the electric floor was switched on, sending thousands of electric volts into the prisoner strapped to the floor. Maxie cut off and arched in pain, spasming as the electricity coursed through his body. It was shut off quickly enough, just a taste. 

“Maxie! Are you ok?” Selina called out.

“I . . . am not Maxie,” he slurred, and blood bubbled down past his lips when he spoke.  _ He must have bit his tongue,  _ Selina realized, and she hit her cell wall with flat hands. 

“Goddamnit, Joker!” She screeched. “Leave him alone!”

The television screen mounted at the top of the control tower flickered on. The Joker sat only centimeters away from the camera, elongating his hideous face. In the background a mask-less Scarecrow, wearing a stained doctor’s robe, tapped his syringe-tipped fingers against the console, while Joker’s goons stood stiffly, trying not to attract their boss’s attention.

“Oh, calm  _ down _ Selina,” the Joker said, his voice echoing violently in the cavernous space. “Unless you want to take his place?”

Selina growled, but before she could tell him exactly where he could stick his threats, Victor spoke up, sounding strained. 

“What is the point of this?” He asked. “What will this prove? You  _ have _ control of the island! You have control of all of us!”

“Yes, yes,  _ yes,  _ but I’m bored!” The Joker whined. “And Zeusie here annoys me, so I figured I’d finally  _ do _ something about it. So sit back and relax, kiddos, because it’s time for the show!”

With a hysterical cackle, the Joker brought a gloved finger to the console. He pressed an innocuous button, and the floor glowed blue for a moment before electricity began dancing on the surface.

Maxie Zeus’s moan turned into a scream. The torture lasted longer this time, and Selina had to look away as he began jolting almost uncontrollably as the voltage coursed through him. She grit her teeth to keep from screaming like a dockwhore, and potentially turning Joker’s attention onto her.

After it was turned off there was a long moment of silence, where all she could hear were Maxie’s harsh, strained attempts to breathe. Too soon, there was the faint hum of the floor turning on, and then Maxie was screaming again, flopping like a rag doll against his constraints.

Silence, and then it all happened again.

After the fourth jolt, Maxie was no longer coherent. He cried openly, weak and pathetic. “Stop,” he begged. “Please.  _ Stop.” _

“Oh, whyyyyy would I do  _ thaaaaat?”  _ The Joker sing-songed. “This is really the best entertainment I’ve had all day, wouldn’t you say, Whiskers?”

Arnold Wesker cringed, and then shoved his puppet forward.

“I’m always down for a good barbecue, boss,” Scarface said. “I say, fry him!”

Wesker whimpered, clearly not quite in agreement. Being cruel to her was one thing—the worst thing he’d done was throw her sandwich on the floor—but electrocuting a man to death was apparently beyond his scope for comfort. 

“Oh, buck up fattie,” the puppet continued. “Don’t be such a  _ girl.” _

Somehow, this last penetrated Zeus’s failing mind. “Amelia?” He called out, voice quavering. “Amelia, is that you?”

“Oh lord,” Victor said, loudly enough for Selina to hear. The sympathy in his removed voice was enough to tip her over the edge. 

She threw herself at the window again, but this time her attention was all on Maxie. “She’s waiting for you, Dad!” She called out. “She’s on—” she hesitated, having forgotten the name of Zeus’s haunt for just a moment. “Mount Olympus! She’s waiting for you at the top of Mount Olympus! All the gods are, but particularly her!”

It was not her finest moment, but she was fighting back tears. Zeus was physically and psychologically broken, and in his death throes was hallucinating his dead wife. She had witnessed terrible atrocities, but never something as horrendous and senseless as this.

“Oh, this is just  _ touching,”  _ the Joker sneered. “Zeusie, let me tell you: there is  _ no one _ on Mount Olympus. We torched your bar  _ months _ ago. Everyone in it died, and your wife died  _ years _ ago—”

“Go to her!” Victor bellowed, cutting through the Joker’s amplified taunt. “Your goddess awaits you! Your kingdom awaits! Do not make Amelia wait, Zeus!”

Through an immense effort of will, Maxie picked his head up off the floor. “Hades,” he rasped, in a final moment of coherence. “Artemis.” He licked his lips. “I will not forget this.”

“Neither will we!” The Joker exclaimed, and he jammed his finger down on the button. The shock was too much for Maxie. There was not even breath to scream—his body locked up, his eyes bulged from their sockets, and his body lit from within, illuminating his skeleton . . . and then he was gone. His body jerked on the floor like a hunk of wood, but he was beyond the reach of pain and fear and madness. 

“Goddamnit!” Selina screamed, so utterly enraged that she couldn’t think straight. “Fucking goddamn you, Joker! You will pay for this! This is the end, do you hear me? I will fucking end you! I’ll fucking end you all!”

“Oooooooh!” The Joker squealed, before his voice turned husky. “You are certainly welcome to try. I can hardly  _ imagine _ what you’ll do when you’re locked up in that block like a rat in a cage, but cats are supposed to be clever, aren’t they? I’m sure you’ll figure out  _ something.” _

She screamed in rage, but Victor took up the crusade. “I will not stand for this, Joker!” He bellowed. “This is Extreme Incarceration, not your playground! I have kept my peace, but if you push me, you will discover how dangerous I can be even without my suit!”

That was unexpected enough to cut through Selina’s rage. Victor’s power over ice and cold didn’t turn off, obviously, but she had thought he was as trapped as she was . . .

The Joker looked more interested than worried. “Oh, are you saying you’ll break out of your cell to come get me? You’d have to deep freeze the entire room to survive, you know, and it’s so big you might not even be able to do  _ that.” _

“If it means getting to you . . .” Victor said, trailing off menacingly in his clipped, educated accent.

The Joker tapped his chin. “It would also mean killing poor little Selina, in the cell right next to yours. There’s no way she’d survive the drop in temperature so close to the locus point. Oh, what a dilemma. Kill me and Selina and possibly yourself . . . or sit in your cell and be a good boy for a little longer. Hmmm. Decisions, decisions . . .”

“Don’t be foolish, Victor,” Selina said quietly, hoping he would hear and the Joker would not. “There will be another chance. Wait for it, no matter what he does. We can outlast him. We will  _ defeat  _ him.”

“What was thaaaaaaat?” The Joker said, crowding the camera with a hand to his ear. “Something about ordering takeout?”

Victor said nothing, either mulling over her advice or sulking. 

“That’s what I  _ thought,”  _ the Joker said smugly. “The game’s not over yet, you two. I’m inordinately excited. It’s going to be  _ fuuuun!” _

“You should just kill her now,” Scarface argued. “Dames are always trouble, mark my words.”

Wesker nodded emphatically, and Selina growled at him. Twerpy asshole, she was going to give him a piece of her boot the next time he fed her. She’d find a way to hurt him first. 

“No, no, I have plans for her,” the Joker waved them off dismissively. “But I suppose there’s no harm in uh, buttering her up, first. Or is it softening her up first? Oh, I remember now. It’s making her live through a panoply of her greatest terrors and worst nightmares, first!”

Selina froze. Oh, shit. Oh,  _ shit, _ Scarecrow was in the control tower and she’d forgotten all about him. 

The Joker offered up his signature Glasgow smile. “Oh, Johnny!” He called out, merrily. “Want in on the game?”

Scarecrow glanced over from where he’d been sitting, industriously scribbling away in his notebook. “As long as it’s more educational than  _ that,”  _ he said with a calm voice, tipping his head towards Zeus’s corpse. “There was not much room for fear in his last moments.”

The Joker swung the chair around, his long legs kicking out to give him more momentum. “No, but this is right up your alley! There’s a cat that needs to see the doctor, if you know what I mean.”

“I do,” Scarecrow agreed, the corner of his mouth turning up into a small, but unmistakably pleased, smile. “I’m not much of an animal person, but I’m sure I could make an exception, just this once.”

“Oh, shit,” Selina breathed, and backed away to the far corner of her cell. “Shit, shit,  _ shit!”  _ A few years back she’d been dosed with Scarecrow’s fear toxin, and it had been the worst fifteen minutes of her life. Bruce had given her his spare antidote, leaving him wide open for one of Crane’s double-doses, and she’d barely been able to buy him the time he’d needed to master his fear and help her defeat Crane. It took him almost ten minutes to overcome it, and he’d kept fighting all the while. When she’d been dosed, she’d collapsed to the ground, twitching and crying until she’d received the antidote.

_ I have to be like Bruce,  _ she thought in a panic, as she heard the control tower door open, and Crane’s steps echo across the floor.  _ I have to be like Batman. I have to be strong. I have to overcome my fears. _

In no time at all Scarecrow was peering through the window, angling his non-syringe-tipped hand through the bars, holding a small aerosol can.

Selina looked up at him defiantly, gripping her hands into fists.

_ “Think of the bat, Ms. Kyle,” _ he murmured. 

She sucked in a surprised breath, and he sprayed his toxin into the room at the same moment. It was a small, controlled spritz, but as the air flow was so stagnant it was enough. She inhaled the chemicals almost immediately. There was only time to imagine Batman’s costumed back, and the image of the bat signal projected onto the night sky.

After that, there was only terror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, there’s going to be little nods to the actual Arkham Asylum game, and Maxie Zeus being tortured with electricity (but not to death, if I remember correctly?) is a big one. The room where Sharp had strapped him to an electric chair made me jump the first time I played, and it really stuck with me.


	5. DRINK ME

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you know what the most stressful part of Arkham City was? The flipping phone calls from Victor Zsasz. STOP USING TECHNOLOGY VICTOR IT WAS TOO MUCH FOR ME.

  
  


**June 27th 20xx**

**The Dock, Arkham West, 6:06 AM**

**Day 7**

  
  


Victor Zsasz’s body was found on the dock at sunrise on the seventh day. He was laid out on his back, blood dripping down through the wooden slats into Gotham Bay. He had been stabbed three times; once in each femoral artery, and his chest. Afterwards, his throat had been slit. His eyes were open, and his face was twisted into an odd expression. It was difficult to tell whether it verged more towards fear, or, more strangely, elation. 

Above his head was a crude but unmistakable bat symbol, painted with smears of his blood. That, paired with Zsasz’s nebulous facial expression, sparked rumors that Batman  _ was _ on the island. If so, he’d have to be desperate enough to kill; a clear departure from his previous  _ modus operandi.  _ Inmates whispered theory after theory to one another. Batman was injured maybe, biding his time certainly . . . but he may just be there after all.

Odd how there was equal parts hope to fear, at that rumor. 

  
  
  


**June 27th 20xx**

**Resistance Bunker, 9:18 AM**

**Day 7**

  
  


It took about three hours for those in the Resistance Bunker to learn about Victor Zsasz’s demise, via one of Joker’s ever-present PA announcements, and just like the inmates, they had mixed feelings about it.

“Thank fucking god,” Bill sighed. “That’s one big name psycho down.”

“Hope Scarecrow’s the next to go,” Zach muttered.

Aaron leaned against the far wall, deep in thought and glowering. Raoul bowed his head, his lips moving soundlessly in prayer. Joan was impressed that his level of faith allowed him to (however briefly) mourn the passing of such a man. Hers certainly didn’t.

“Do you really think it was Batman?” Taylor asked, hopefully. “Maybe he’s on the island now!”

“Nah,” Mike said. “Batman never kills. At least, never like that. I could see an accident here or there, but painting the docks red with Zsasz’s blood? Doesn’t sound like the big man to me.”

“Unless the Joker was exaggerating,” Taylor pointed out. “Maybe the bat symbol was done in red spray paint, or something.”

“Batman’s not on the island,” Aaron said, in a tone of complete finality. “We’d know. We’d all know.”

There was a moment of chastised quiet before Louie picked up the conversational baton.

“My bet’s on Prometheus, then,” Louie said, nodding at Joan. “He’s Batman’s ‘Dark Mirror,’ after all, according to the doc. Coulda thought he was being altruistic. Or maybe Zsasz just pissed him off.”

Joan agreed with him, although there was enough leeway to make her uncertain. Most, if not all, of the residents on Arkham Asylum were defined by Batman, either in alignment or in opposition. Prometheus may have used the bat symbol (again, as long as Joker wasn’t lying about all of this over his loudspeaker report) to identify with the hero . . . or someone may have used it ironically, or even simply to spread fear.

“It’s impossible to say with the little information we have,” she said. “Honestly, I’m more of a mind with Bill. If Zsasz’s death means that we—or any of the inmates—make it out of this mess alive, I cannot mourn his passing.”

She glanced over at Aaron, but he was steadfastly looking away from her. His right hand was wrapped tightly around his wrist, as if his false hand needed it to stay on.

_ Anxious tick,  _ Joan thought, categorizing it as she would any other patient.  _ Something has upset him, and I’m willing to bet it’s not Zsasz. _

_ Of course it’s not, you idiot. He’s upset because of you! _

Aaron hadn’t made eye contact with her since their misadventure in her office, even though they had come out, as far as she could tell, entirely on top. No loss of life on their side, no being discovered, her notes were all destroyed and could not be replicated. Win all around. So why then, was Aaron so pointedly ignoring her after a solid week of hovering?

What confounded her even more than his behavior was her own. Just yesterday she had been bemoaning her loss of freedom, as well as her shoelaces. Now, she was jittery and anxious in her own skin, and wanted nothing more than to go over there and make him talk to her. The loss of his attention had set her adrift, and she was beginning to understand Stephan’s coming apart at the seams. 

She needed him to annoy her. How could she be strong without that?

But it wasn’t just that, she was honest enough to admit it, if only to herself. She needed all that he was and all he represented in a most immediate sense—her safety and survival depended on him, more than any other man in the bunker. He’d been head of security for the past eight years, part of the security team for five more, and knew more than anyone on the island—save for a few of the most dangerous inmates—its secrets and safety measures. If he couldn’t keep her safe—keep them all safe—who could?

Joan looked down. But even that wasn’t the full truth. She needed him, period. She needed his bullheaded attitude, his capability, his querulous strength. She needed his quick-witted intelligence, his vivid courage, quiet curiosity; his sassy rejoinders and hidden kindness. 

All this and more was why she’d slowly, reluctantly, and completely helplessly fallen in love with him. 

Joan let her head fall back against the bunker wall. She didn’t like to admit it, even to herself, but she’d known about her feelings for Aaron for a long time. Long before the Killer Croc accident three years ago, and even before the uprising five years ago. Not before he’d married Letitia; back then he was just the guy her best friend was dating. It also wasn’t when, a few years into their marriage, with little 3 year-old Daniel pitter-pattering through the house on bare feet and chattering adorably about _cweamy peanut buttew_ , Letitia turned to her and said _oh,_ _did she know her man had just gotten a position at Arkham Asylum?_

Joan had not known that, nor had she cared over much, not when she was finishing up her education and looking for a job of her own. Even when she came to Arkham a decade ago, it had been with nothing more than a sense of relief that she would know someone on her first day. But that had undoubtedly been the beginning. After years of working together, interacting in Arkham situations that ran the gamut from tedious to fraught to absolutely disastrous; offset by family parties, barbecues, holidays, and other outings outside of work; seeing him at his best and worst to really understand his calibre. Once that happened, she was lost. She had no idea how Letitia had the fortune to pick a man as steady and loyal and  _ good  _ as him, (Letty had always been a bit of a flitter bug, going from one good thing to the next, never taking it seriously) but once Joan saw it, there was no unseeing it. 

For a good three years she fought it, carefully moderating her emotions around him and going on dates with every college-educated male within a fifty mile radius, but it was to no avail. There was no one she could care for more than Aaron Cash, for all his faults and foibles. No matter how hard she tried otherwise. 

Yet he was a monogamous man and she a loyal woman and friend, so there was no point in attempting. Not when he was married to Letitia, her best friend, as well as completely uninterested in her. So she resigned herself to being a career woman. No family, no children, no blood-line legacy . . . just her work and the people she could help within the walls of the Asylum.

There were worse things, and most days she could content herself with all the good she was doing. 

These were not most days.

There was the sound of scuffling feet from the hallway, and everyone glanced toward the hallway. Stephen Kellerman made his way from the bedroom, stepping gingerly into the main room of the bunker. His eyes were wide, as if surprised to see all of them awake and present. 

“What did I miss?” He asked tiredly. Everyone had started asking that first thing after they woke up, knowing that the answer would invariably be more bad than good. 

Raoul tapped the chair next to him, which was vacated by an exhausted Jackson, who was more than ready to take Stephan’s bunk. 

“Come sit with us,” he invited. 

At the same time, Louie said, “Zsasz is down.”

“Hallelujah,” Javier muttered, although he quieted at Raoul’s stern look.

“Victor Zsasz?” Stephen repeated, astounded. “Good lord, that’s unexpected. I’d always thought the man was too mean to die!”

Joan agreed, although she was not his primary therapist. She remembered the close call with Sarah Cassidy, however, and how only the Batman had been able to keep her from becoming yet another victim. He’d been assigned to Stephen shortly after, who had the good fortune not to be singled out as Sarah had. 

Joan suspected that Zsasz found him boring. Joan also suspected that Stephen was carefully cultivating this opinion.

“Yeah well, some Batman wannabe kook took him out,” Louie continued. 

Stephen listened to the situation intently, and when it was over he leaned back in his chair. “It must be Prometheus. He’s been growing steadily more obsessed with Batman over the last few months, and he’d started to refer to himself as if he  _ were _ Batman.”

“Do you think he’ll keep offing baddies on the island?” Bill asked, with not much hope in his voice.

Stephen looked over at her. She shrugged. Prometheus hadn’t been her patient. She didn’t even know the man’s  _ name,  _ although from what they  _ did _ know of his life—he’d come from hippie parents who lived in a trailer, hadn’t given him a social security number, and robbed and killed indiscriminately—his name could be anything from King Priam to Sunshine.

Some things were better off not knowing. 

“I think so,” Stephen murmured. “Whether or not this develops into a full-scale conflagration of war and retributory acts, I can’t tell.”

Louie sighed and slumped in his chair. “Yeah, I’m surprised Joker’s been able to keep the lid on the island for as long as he has. How is he keeping the inmates from rising up and killing each other? The gangs alone should be going at it, but they’re all sticking to the crazy fucking clown!”

The men at the table splintered into conversations. Bill argued that the Joker had more tricks up his sleeve, and Louie wanted to vent. Javier played devil’s advocate and mentioned new strictures Joker could implement to keep everyone in line.

During all this, it appeared that Raoul was teaching Stephen how to pray the Lord’s Prayer in Spanish. Joan was more interested in that, to be honest. She had noticed Stephen taking quiet moments with Raoul, Jackson, and Javier, who were the three practicing Roman Catholics in the bunker. It appeared that Stephen was attempting to take solace in their faith. Seeing the calming effect it had on him, she could only approve. Only a day or so ago she had feared he was reaching the breaking point, and anything that could keep him from toppling over was a godsend. 

“Joan? Do you have a moment?”

She’d finally gotten Aaron Cash off her mind, and here he was reeling her back in again. She glanced up at him and nodded. He slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor next to her, next to the huge crate of canned corn and whisky. He fiddled with his wooden hand. Joan, having eschewed the greater amount of social delicacies during her tenure on Arkham Asylum, stared at him until he found his words.

“Joan, I’m sorry you had to see that, the other day,” he said quietly, yet distinctly. He did not look at her. 

Something inside of her unclenched.  _ That _ was what he was worried about? That was why he had avoided her? It made sense, but was so ancillary to her own fears that it almost made her laugh. “I’m not,” she said bluntly. 

His eyes cut in her direction but did not quite connect. “You—what? Wait, are we talking about the same thing, here?”

“I’m referring to your killing several inmates, yes,” she said. “Unless you were talking about your unseemly obsession with my shoelaces, I am fairly sure I am on the right track.”

“Unseemly obsession—” He sputtered, surprised into making eye contact with her. “Joan, you watched me slice someone’s throat with my hook. His blood is on your clothes,  _ because of me,  _ and you’re saying it doesn’t bother you?”

The relief that he wasn’t avoiding her for something she’d done, as well as the general fear of the situation—day seven of hiding on a madhouse island run by the Joker—made her brave. She leaned forward, and moving carefully, took his wooden hand between her own. The gesture would have held more weight had it been his hook, but she’d have to make do, here.

“Aaron,” she enunciated clearly, “I see where you’re coming from. I really do. But I’ve had some time to think it over, and I’ve decided I’d much rather deal with the aftermath than the alternative.”

His dark eyes searched hers, looking for the lie she was not telling.

“Besides,” she continued with a wry smile. “I was never very squeamish. I have a rating system on how artistic the blood spray is in gory films, remember?”

“But  _ I _ did that,” he murmured, his eyes still fixed on hers. “I killed a man in front of you.  _ You _ , who took an oath to care for all those who needed it.”

“If you’re referring to the Hippocratic Oath, I should let you know that psychologists don’t actually take that.”

“Oh, don’t give me that. You live that oath, Joan, don’t pretend like you aren’t here to do all the good you can!”

“And  _ you _ are here to protect those lives,” Joan argued, her tone rising before she remembered herself and brought it back down to a whisper. “I know as well as you that sometimes, sacrifices must be made for the greater good. Even if that weren’t the case, it was clearly self-defense. My defense, even.” They were staring at each other from a distance of six inches now, their expressions sparking with a mixture of anger and anxiety. 

“I just—” Aaron cut off, dropping to a mumble, “I just don’t want you to think of me differently. I don’t want things to change because of this.”

Joan’s heart undertook a hard, fast double-thump. Lord help her, but this was a moment of vulnerability. From the man who could stop a riot with one hand behind his back, talk a (sane) inmate into his cell four times out of five, and had stood up to Killer Croc again and again and again, it was powerful enough. Coming from the man that Joan had loved—Jesus save her,  _ loved— _ for at least the last seven years—eight years? Who even knew anymore?—it was devastating.

She wanted to take his other hand, feel the warm flesh of it against her own. She wanted to throw herself into his lap. She wanted to kiss him. She settled for blinking back an unexpected sting of tears and saying, “If you’re saying I’m going to think differently of you because I’ve seen you kill a man, I might have to pencil you in for an appointment, Aaron.” She gripped his wooden hand harder, pretending it was the real one. “Nothing will ever change the man I see,” she continued, hoping the words would be oblique enough to hide the feeling with which they were delivered. “Nothing.”

Stephen’s voice rose above the din. “Sancti—santificado sea . . .”

“ _ Sanctificado sea tu nombre _ , Stephen. Good, good. Try again.” Raoul counselled him.

The moment broke. The men arguing Joker’s tactics were now looking past Stephen’s attempts to learn the Lord’s Prayer—Joan assumed he must know the English equivalent already, otherwise what was the point—and were pointedly averting their gaze from Aaron and Joan.

Joan belatedly let go of his hand and thanked the Lord for her dark skin which did not show blushes easily. 

Stephen, who did not realize his colleague had been caught in a semi-compromising position, continued blithely on. “Sanctificado sea tu nombre. Venga tu reino . . .”

Leaning back in his chair so as to have a clear view of his superior, Bill North asked, “What are we gonna do about the compound, Aaron?”

“What compound?” He asked, his voice gritty. The man needed sleep more than anyone, Joan thought, if he had forgotten that already.

“You know, Ivy’s and the Doc’s special serum?” Bill said, cutting his gaze over to her and giving her a nod.

Raoul lay a hand on Stephen’s arm, interrupting their prayer. 

“The notes are destroyed,” Louie pointed out. “Can’t we just let it rest?”

“Not if they find the finished product,” Aaron growled. “Shit. We need to find out where the product was moved.” He turned to look at her, and his gaze was intense. “Any idea who would know where it went?”

“Sharp,” she said, sighing. “He was the one who ordered the closure of the project, he’d be the one to know where it went.”

“Well he’s no help to us  _ now _ ,” Bill muttered.

“He could have left documentation in his office,” Joan said reluctantly. 

“He couldn’t be  _ that  _ stupid, surely?” Stephan asked.

Everyone in the room gave Stephen Kellerman a look of censure. Raoul’s was more pitying, but Stephen quailed under their combined efforts.

“I doubt there’s anything explicit written down, seeing as any paper trail could be used by his political adversaries, but if there’s any hint as to the compound’s location, it would be in his office,” Joan allowed, trying to defend her colleague. 

“And what exactly are we looking for, then?” Aaron asked, back to the charged-up, combative persona he adopted in crises.

“Anything,” she sighed. “We need to find that compound and destroy it. We cannot let it fall into Joker’s hands!”

“Joan, we don’t even know if it worked—”

“There was a definite effect, Aaron—”

“None of that even matters,” Bill interrupted them, holding up his hands when they turned to fix him with twin glares. “Look, the point is, Joker’s a more than competent chemist,  _ and _ he’s got Scarecrow working for him. Who knows what they’ll do with the base formula, or whatever it is. They could twist it into Laughing Gas 2.0 or Fear Toxin Ultra. I don’t know. I don’t  _ want  _ to know. And if they do, and unleash it over Gotham, I don’t want to sit here, safe, knowing I could’ve stopped it.”

“But we  _ don’t know _ if Sharp kept any sort of documentation,” Aaron argued. “This could just be a fool’s errand where we  _ do _ get killed!”

“Not necessarily,” Louie argued, fairly coherently for a man who’d been taken surreptitious shots of whisky for the past hour. “There’s a passage that leads to that end of the mansion, and as far as we can tell, Joker’s holed up in Intensive Treatment. If we time it just right . . .”

“Maybe during one of his ‘Joker games,’” suggested Bill. “It’s not like anyone on the island can miss when one of those starts. There’s PA announcements before each one!”

“It’s crazy enough that it might just work,” Louie finished. “As long as the game doesn’t take place in the mansion, at least.”

“This is gonna get us killed,” Aaron said flatly. “Tell me I am not the only person who recognizes that.”

Joan stood, dusting off her pants as she did so. It was an entirely superfluous gesture, as her clothes were stained with dirt, blood, sweat, and whiskey.  _ They needed to find more clothes, soon,  _ she thought, before answering Aaron’s statement.

“Very possibly,” she allowed. “But this is more important than our survival.”

“How can you think like that?” He asked her standing and shifting away from her, towards the table. 

Joan sighed deeply. “I realize that you have other considerations to live for. I don’t have the family you do, the way many of you do,” she said, addressing them all. “But I have my purpose, and it is to help broken people by healing their broken minds. And because I work in Arkham Asylum, easily the most dangerous institution of its kind, I am aware that any failure on my part could mean the injury or death of myself. Others. An entire city. Maybe all of New Jersey. The world.

“I have a responsibility to myself, and to everyone I ever knew, to keep the Joker from finding the compound. Doubly so as I was the one to engineer its creation. Whatever happens with that formula, it will be on my head. I cannot let this happen. I  _ will not _ let this happen.”

There was a moment of silence before Bill snagged Louie’s full shot glass, downed it, and then said, “And I’m gonna help. I’m with ya, Doc.”

Joan smiled at his support, but Aaron’s hand came down on his shoulder.

“No, you are not,” he said, quietly. “I need you to run the bunker—”

“Aaron, this is too important—” Bill argued, but Aaron rode over him.

“I need you at the bunker while  _ I _ go with Doctor Leland,” he finished. “You’re my second in command, and if Star Trek has taught us anything, it’s that Number 2 stays with the ship when the captain is away.”

Joan blinked, and then blinked again. She had no idea he liked Star Trek. Could the man be any more perfect?

Aaron looked around the table. “You all are about to drop,” he noted. “So I’ll take Brian, Javier, and Taylor when their sleep shift is over. I’ll crash with them until then. We’ll scout twice, and after the plan is finalized, wait in the tunnels until the next Joker Game is announced. Then move in. Joan? Get whatever you need done, now.”

“Yes, sir,” she murmured.

Raoul crossed himself, and a moment later, Stephen did as well.

  
  


**June 27th 20xx**

**Intensive Treatment Control Center, 11:18 AM**

**Day 7**

The Joker spun in his padded chair, kicking his long, spindly legs to keep the momentum going. Everything was going according to plan, his games were in full sway, chaos had taken full control of the island . . . and he was feeling . . . oh, how would he put it? A touch missish?

No, not missish. Not today. Not  _ exactly. _ But there was something that was bothering him, perhaps? Yes, he was bothered. By . . . by . . . ?

He snapped his fingers when it came to him. The serum, of course! He’d had control over the island for a full week and still had no idea what it did, where it was, who had made it in the first place . . .

Wellllllll to be  _ fair,  _ he did have a decent idea of who had made it. But even there, there were some lurking doubts. Johnny was the genius chemist, but there was simply no evidence of him creating the stuff! Even after Joker had reviewed the security footage from his wing for the last year, there was no sign of Johnny sneaking off to create a new formula. 

(There was a surprising amount of footage of him being led off by Cash in the middle of the night, which was intriguing. Especially as he hadn’t found where he’d been led  _ to _ , yet.  _ And _ it was when he was under Joan Leland’s jurisdiction. Late night talks with the doc? Maybe, although probably not about anything  _ good.  _ She was known for eschewing drugs and favoring more behavioural techniques, so meeting him at 3:00 AM was likely just a power play, or a way of getting him off guard.  _ Borrrringgggggg.  _ It was way more fun to pretend that they were teaming up for some ungodly reason, or hell, reenacting his and Harley’s courtship. Why not? It wasn’t like  _ Joan Leland _ was involved with the secret serum project. She was way too boring for that, and a total stick in the mud, who was always frowning at him and telling Harley to break up with him.

Boring. Borring. Borrrrring.  _ Borrrrrinnnnggggggg. _ )

Buuuuuuuut on the other hand, Scarecrow really was a one trick pony. That fear stuff was a laugh, sure, but to branch out? No. It wasn’t Johnny. But then who?

Penelope Young, perhaps? Ah, but Zsasz had killed her, before being killed off himself. And her office had been ransacked, which led to some kind of exciting stuff, but not the particular brand of stuff Joker was looking for. Had to be one of the other docs, then, but none of the remaining ones seemed to know anything about it. Their time facing physical and psychological torture assured him of that.

Eddie probably would have known, before he’d been beaten into insensibility. . . The Joker sighed before setting his feet—size 11, spats firmly in place—on the floor. Eddie, Eddie, Eddie. Used to be the smartest man here, and now he was a drivelling wreck on Hush’s table. Least he was still alive—Tommy really had done fantastic work, just phenomenal, really, his skills were absolutely wasted on his villainous vigilante career— but who was to say if he could even talk?

Maybe he should have thought twice about beating him nearly to death? 

Joker nahh’d. He’d figure it out on his own. Easy come, easy go!

  
  
  
  
  
  


**June 27th 20xx**

**Extreme Incarceration, 2:27 PM**

**Day 7**

Selina came to awareness suddenly, unexpectedly; so breathlessly frightened that she could only manage a huffy little scream. It was not loud enough to echo in her cement holding cell, and thus did not draw Victor’s attention. She lay back against the cold, hard floor of the cell, her heart thudding wildly, her eyes tracking the four, close corners of her abode. The last vestiges of the visions were present, and the nightmares would haunt her for weeks to come, but for now, the fear slowly faded away.

It shouldn’t have, of course. Not without the antidote. Those who were under the influence of Crane’s fear toxin were usually permanently addled, or so highly traumatised they were useless for years after. She also knew her own limits, and was under no illusions about her own resistance to the toxin. That she was coherent meant he had to have given her a smaller, less concentrated dose. And what had he said just before applying it?  _ Think of the bat? _

Thinking of Batman made her stronger. Made them all stronger, to be honest. He had to know that—he was a brilliant psychologist, after all. Putting that all together . . .

_ He’s trying to help me without openly going against the Joker,  _ she realized. But why? They weren’t friends, nor could they stand each other. The only members of the gallery he gave the time of day to were Hatter and Harley, on the off occasion that they were in Arkham, and he felt like a game of chess or indulging in a scathing psychological discussion on an inmate, guard, or fellow doctor. 

Otherwise he was a certifiable loner misanthropist who was, historically, trigger happy with his toxin and high-pitched giggle. 

The entire situation didn’t make sense, particularly when she was coming off of a Scarecrow fear trip. At the moment, however, she was prepared to live with the mystery. All she immediately wanted was to sit quietly and be grateful she wasn’t dead. And as Victor wasn’t shouting, singing, shaking the metaphorical bars of his own cage she could safely assume he was asleep and/or meditating, and that meant she got to sit in quiet for a time.

She’d tell him she was ok, later. For now . . . Selina pulled herself up and crawled over to the door, where they had left her a ham and cheese sandwich and a water bottle. At least it wasn’t bologna. She ate slowly, counting thirty chews before each swallow, and by the time she’d finished her meal she had come to several determinations.

  1. Bruce had not yet come for her, and that meant that he _couldn’t._
  2. She had no idea how she felt about that. It was simply too large and frightening to consider head on.
  3. There was dissension in the camp, but it was an undercurrent. Joker was still firmly in charge, and there was no love lost between them.
  4. She was trapped in E.I with no help forthcoming, and she had _no idea what to do next._



Selina laid her head back against the wall, breathed in deeply, and tried not to panic.

…

…

…

Several hours later, she was jostled out of a light doze by the mechanized doors to the E.I. activating. Feeling quite a bit better, Selina scrambled up and called out to Victor.

“Heya, Vic! Know what time it is?” She hoped it was dinner time. 

His reply was immediate, and the relief in his voice was gratifying. “Selina! You’re all right?”

Oops. Maybe she should have let him know sooner?

“Aha. Yep. Apparently. Nine lives and all that.”

Selina’s German was rusty, but she would guess his response to that was something along the lines of  _ thank god for that,  _ or  _ may I please kill the cat? _

As she said, her German = no bueno.

Before she could formulate a response, Jervis Tetch hopped up to glance in her cell. He was so short that he barely cleared the opening, but Selina caught a glimpse of his eyes—wide, and frightened.

“Jervis?”

“There’s not much time!” He exclaimed in a stage whisper. “They’re coming to hurt you, Alice, and I can’t let that happen. But I can’t protect you—you have to protect yourself!”

_ Does no one here know my name?  _ She wondered, before she remembered that Victor, at least, did. Well, that made it official. He was her new favorite, she was calling it now.

“Protect myself? With what?”

“Your _ self _ ,” he replied, his voice serious. “Have you never killed someone before?”

What had her life become that she was having a Murder Talk with Mad Hatter? Her eyes narrowed. “You know, I try not to do that,” she hedged. “My boyfriend doesn’t like it so much.”

He hopped up again so she got a clear look of his face. He looked worried? Concerned? Yeah, that couldn’t bode well. 

“I suspected as much,” he muttered. “Come here, come here!”

Selina did, because hey, what if he let her out? Her hopes were dashed when he tossed a vial at her, which she fumbled to catch. Upon doing so, she saw the label quite helpfully read, ‘ _ DRINK ME.’ _

“Uhhhh,” she said, intelligently.

“It will break down inhibitive barriers, and allow you to do what you need to do. And do it you must. This cannot be allowed to happen. It’s  _ wrong.” _

Selina’s blood ran cold. Jervis was one of the crazier inhabitants of Arkham, and if he was putting his foot down on an issue, it couldn’t be good.

“What’s wrong? What’s happening?”

“ _ They’re _ coming,” he said, his voice full of terror. “They thought you’d still be a prisoner to Scarecrow’s fear, but Crane told me you wouldn’t. I’m sorry, but I can’t do any more than this. Good luck, Alice. Be strong.”

He scuttled away, ignoring Selina’s cries for him to come back and explain. He ignored Victor entirely, and after he left there was a good ten minutes of staring out at the E.I. main chamber, hoping he would come back again and assuring Victor she wasn’t actually going to drink the mysterious substance her newest drug dealer had given her. 

But then the doors opened again. This time, Arnold Wesker led them, and he did not bring the dinner trolley. Instead, he had three of the most notorious non-super criminals with him—all of them jailed for murder and rape.

“Oh, shit,” Selina breathed, just as Victor started yelling holy hell.

The creativity and vehemence of Victor’s threats were such that Wesker actually paused in his approach to her cell to address them.

“You could, in fact, do all that,” he said in his reedy voice. “And you would likely be able to kill all four of us before we could escape. But then Ms. Kyle would die as well. And then . . .  _ you _ .” 

Scarface laughed.

When the hell had he grown a pair? God, she was beginning to wonder who the fuck the puppet actually was—the wooden doll or the human. She decided then and there, when she escaped she was going to roast the Joker  _ alive.  _ Wesker would be the appetizer, however, and she had other, better plans for him. She’d make him wear his own intestines as jewelry before she let him die.

She looked down at the vial in her hand and knew what she had to do.

“I’ve got this, Vic,” she called out, pulling on a bravado she did not feel. “But just in case I don’t . . . Tell B I love him.”

She threw back the contents of the vial, ignoring Victor’s renewed attempts to hold Wesker’s attention, and the jeering of the men he’d brought with him. They were activating the bridge that led to her cell now, and she was just swallowing the last of the drug. The chemical taste of the liquid made her gag, but the effects were immediate. The world became sharp, clear, slow, and she had never been so light and strong. Her entire being felt like a weapon, her body a perfect extension of her mind’s singular desire—to destroy her enemies.

To survive.

The door opened and she threw the vial at the face of the first man in without conscious decision to do so. She rushed after it, surprising them with her speed, although she’d always been quick. The man swore and ducked the vial, but could not dodge her fists. One quick, uninhibited blow crushed his trachea, and he fell gasping to the floor, dying.

The other two swore and rushed her, one swinging a knife to subdue her, the other a baseball bat. Both were too clumsy and slow to touch her in her current state. Even had she not been drugged, she knew the confines of her cell better than they, and the one with the bat was stymied by his inability to swing without hitting his partner or the walls.

It was he that she targeted first. Graceful as a ballerina, smoother and more coherently than she’d ever managed before, she kicked herself off of the knife-wielder, shoving him to the far end of the cell. Using that momentum, she front handspringed toward the man with the baseball bat. She threw her legs around neck in a deadlier variation of the popular wrestling move, the hurricanrana. Before he could get her off, she brought her weight to bear, twisted, and snapped his neck between her thighs.

That took more time than she had to spare, however. The last goon recovered and sliced her with his weapon, tearing a superficial, diagonal gash down her back and left arm. Thankfully she was already in motion, using the momentum as the body fell to the floor to propel herself in the opposite direction. 

Ignoring the hot gush of blood dripping down past her fingertips, she turned to face the last attacker. Again without her conscious choice, she assumed a martial position she had seen Bruce adopt many times in the past.   
And then it was as if his voice came out of her lips. “Feeling lucky, punk?” She asked, in exactly his deadpan tone.

It was almost enough to make the last man hesitate. But baser thoughts controlled him. He pulled out another knife, licked his lips, and rushed her, blades held at the ready.

Violence was the beginning and end of her understanding. The scent of blood was in the air, and the world blurred around her as she moved. Yet it felt as if it was not just Bruce’s voice, his movements inspiring her. She felt as if she  _ was _ Bruce;  _ was _ Batman. She could almost see the dark swirl of his cape as she used the wall as a launching point, gaining speed and momentum over her foe. She could almost feel the cowl over the smooth skin and delicate bones of her face.

It was this that inspired her to take a more direct approach to the rapist. Rather than flipping over him, she slid in below and between his blades, surprising him just long enough to put a move into practice she’d learned, but never utilized—rapid jabs to the stomach, nose, and then the throat. 

The rapist’s eyes bulged and expelled a spittle-laden, loud exhale. His knives clattered to the floor. His knees gave out soon after, and Selina had barely enough presence of mind to move out of the way as he fell. Before she could move for the doorway, however, it slammed shut, Wesker’s furious face glaring at her through the window. 

There were two bodies in the room with her. Wesker must have removed one, along with the baseball bat. And she was unsure whether the last was dead or not, but her exhaustion and malnutrition was catching up to her. This, coupled with the fading adrenaline, was enough for the world to grow dim at the edges of her vision.

Victor called out to her, and she remembered the odd sound of her own voice as she responded, but later she had no idea what she said. All she could think of to do was to sit with her back against the wall, and stare at the maybe-dead guy until she couldn’t remember anything else.

  
  


**June 28th 20xx**

**Medical Center Grounds, 8:19 AM**

**Day 8**

Ivy had not thought boredom would be a part of her tenure in Joker’s Regime, but then again, she had been wrong before. Even Harley’s visit—their third such sleepover—was not enough to assuage her moody curiosity as to how the other denizens of the island were doing. So, in a move so direct and unlike her that even  _ she _ was surprised, she escorted Harley to the Medical Center the next morning.

Harley chirped along beside her, a little blonde bird so full of joy with herself and the world. Ivy knew it wouldn’t last; couldn’t last, but she would nurture her happiness until the hammer fell. That was part of the reason she convinced herself into attending her, after all. Knowing the direction from which danger would come was the first step to defending her friend against it. She had to make sure Hush and Scarecrow were not the prime threats, not totally under the Joker’s thumb. The other players on the island didn’t care as much about Harley personally. Hush and Scarecrow were the only two remaining threats now that she’d gotten a glimpse of what Harvey Dent was secretly up to.

That she hadn’t seen Jonathan Crane in days was not a part of her decision. It simply  _ was _ , and if Ivy was growing annoyed over the drift of her thoughts over the past few days, accelerated from their pace from over the past few months, she was certainly not going to address it now.

The guards at the Medical Center let them in without qualm, and showed a pleasing amount of fear when Ivy smiled at them. Harley shot her a happy, secretive little smile as they walked into the elevator that would take them down to the lower level—where Harley was to procure something or other from Hush, Ivy couldn’t be bothered to know exactly what.

“You still got it, Red,” Harley teased. “Those boys were falling all over themselves to let us in.”

Ivy felt a strange, happy thrill in her heart, and so answered in kind. “It’s not just me, Harley. I think one or two of them wouldn’t mind a dinner date with you.”

Harley shoved her playfully, but Ivy had been serious. Harley was a lovely woman, with perfectly formed features and a sparkle in her eye that even layers of greasepaint couldn’t hide. Ivy suspected it was the dichotomy of her nature that drew the Joker to her—cute and sweet, yet murderously aggressive when prompted—but her obvious beauty could only help. 

“Too bad dinner dates aren’t on the menu for you, huh?” Harley sighed. “I mean, I love our girls nights out, especially when Selina’s all  _ spicy,  _ but it would give us something to talk about. You, going out to dinner with someone. Well, you know. If you actually  _ wanted _ to . . .”

Ivy could not imagine having dinner with someone, in an actual restaurant, with actual white tablecloths. Or any colored tablecloths. The point remained—she was not a woman who  _ dated _ , nor could she imagine any romantic conversation being anything less than inspiring.

But she could imagine conversing normally, even pleasurably with a man, if not in a restaurant over dinner, than in some other nondescript locale. Like her cell, for instance. His cell. Or on a rooftop in Gotham. Or perhaps in a chemical laboratory somewhere, where they’d both be at an advantage, and he might unwind enough to smile, or even laugh—

_ Stop thinking of him!  _ She commanded herself, for the umpteenth time.  _ There is no point to this! He is certainly not thinking of you! _

“Red?” Harley asked, head cocking to the side. “You ok?”

“Yes, Harley,” she sighed. “Just . . . let’s get this over with.”

…

…

…

The elevator down to the subterranean levels of the Medical Center was shorter than Ivy remembered. Or perhaps that was her sense of anticipation talking. Or maybe it was the way Harley clung to her when they’d barely gone ten steps beyond the elevator, whimpering.

Scarecrow was here, and using enough of his fear toxin that it was seeping through the main laboratory doors. Ivy was, after a quick moment of flashing recall— _ hot breath, heavy hands, five-and-a-half inches of engorged flesh stabbing into her— _ able to master herself. 

“I’ve got you, Harley,” she promised her friend, and then dropped a quick kiss on her head to level out the effects of Crane’s toxin. Harley came back a bit to herself, but seemed torn between the lingering fear and the subdued traces of Ivy’s touch.

Hush, who stood watching his colleague’s work from behind thick paned glass, seemed untouched.

“Good morning,” he greeted them. “Ah, Harley. I see you’ve brought your friend.”

“Red’s behaving,” Harley said, a little woozily. “Do you have the update?”

Hush handed over a thick packet of paper. “Everything is in there, but Edward’s recovery is frankly astonishing. Since waking, he’s regained more motor skills than I’d thought possible. The cranial damage is enormous, however. He has yet to speak, and I have no idea if he ever will again.”

Harley did not even look down at the papers. “Thanks, Tommy. Mistah J will get back to you with anything else he needs. We’d better be going . . .” She turned to her friend. “Red?  _ Red?” _

It took her several tries and a shake to get Ivy’s attention. She had let her attention drift, and her eyes wander where they would. And from the other side of the glass, unable to hear them or otherwise know they were there, Scarecrow—for it was undoubtedly he, wearing his mask and delighting in the sheer terror he was inflicting on his lunatic patients—turned to face her. His needled fingers clacked together before he dropped his hand down to the side. For a moment, he was utterly still in the midst of several cowering inmates, who were alternately screaming and skittering around the room in a helpless attempt to avoid him.

Scarecrow did nothing but stare at her, and until he looked away, she could not. She felt as rooted to the spot as if her babies had taken hold of her, yet his hold was on some other part of her, some unidentifiable, fundamental part of her.

She wondered what he saw when he looked at her, as both Scarecrow and Jonathan Crane. 

“Much better,” Hush muttered, not seeming to realize the oddity in Scarecrow’s and Poison Ivy’s staring at each other. “I’ve come to like when Dr. Crane is in control of himself. Interesting as the Scarecrow is, not much gets done when he comes out to play.”

An eternity had passed since Ivy had come down here. Something akin to both fear and desire—yet in truth was neither—made her chest throb. Suddenly, she needed air and light and her babies, and so she acquiesced to Harley’s tugs and, bidding a quiet farewell to Hush, allowed herself to be dragged back to the elevator.

…

…

…

Harley did not shake off the remnants of the fear toxin until they were walking back to the Intensive Treatment building, in the fresh air and sunlight. Then she found her voice, as well.

“What was that about?” Harley asked, with an upward glance.

“What was what about?” Ivy asked, still much preoccupied with how seeing Crane in his happiest habitat had made her feel. 

“The professor,” Harley said, as if everything should be obvious. “He stopped dropped and  _ rolled _ when you walked in. Did you dose him? Or try to? He’s been really careful around you, lately. Really minding his manners.”

Ivy very nearly missed a step. She had not considered that. Did Crane fear  _ her?  _ She had not supposed so, beyond a very natural sense of caution. But it could go deeper than that. It might. 

_ It must,  _ a voice inside her whispered.  _ You know why. And you know exactly how it feels.  _

“Not to my knowledge,” she deflected. “But I don’t see a difference. He’s always been like that. He doesn’t have much interest in being a ‘boyfriend’ as you so charmingly call them.”

“Kind of a pity,” Harley said, winking. “He was kind of good looking, back in university. Along with extremely intelligent and kind of funny, in a cutting, sarcastic way . . . Actually, I think the two of you might get along pretty well, what, with your terroristic activities and misanthropy and general disdain for humanity . . .” She sighed and shook her head. “But I don’t think he likes girls, much. Or guys, for that matter. Or anyone. I remember how jumpy he got when that young English professor asked him out in front of our lecture group, once. Absolutely cut her into  _ ribbons. _ ”

Ivy found that she wanted to hear none of it, for reasons she absolutely refused to get into. “And what of Scarecrow?” She asked.

Harley looked askance at that. “Whaddya mean?” Her attention sharpened. “I hadn’t thought the dichotomy delineated any major changes in terms of his sexuality—or lack thereof.”

“Nor do I,” Ivy said, kicking herself for inadvertently sending her friend into ‘psychologist mode.’ “I just thought to mention it because that’s who he is right now.”

“But he’s always Scarecrow,” Harley said, still confused. It cleared up when she explained, “He’s not a dual-personality, if that’s what you’re thinking. People with psychosis like his, it’s all or nothing. And it’s clearly not nothing.”

…

…

…

_ But that wasn’t right _ , Ivy thought later, on her way back to the Greenhouse after dropping Harley off at Intensive. For it was not always all or nothing with Dr. Jonathan Crane. He had alluded to the dichotomy several times during their sessions, and she’d seen firsthand the shift from one to another.

More importantly, she wondered if Crane was aware she’d been in the Medical Center this morning, or if he’d been too far gone in his Scarecrow persona to care.

**_January 15th, 20xx_ **

**_The Green Mile, 1:49 AM_ **

**_(6 months prior to takeover)_ **

_ Ivy’s second session with Dr. Crane was nothing like the first, largely because she wasn’t having it with Dr. Crane at all. In his place had come the Scarecrow, with his wide, twisted grimaces, manic expressions, and an emptiness behind those pale blue eyes. _

_ There was a veneer of civility to get Cash to go to his post, and then all bets were off. Scarecrow stretched his fingers at her, long and spindly, wiggling them like he had his syringes attached. His voice was higher pitched than normal, and utterly without accent when he asked her, “Aren’t you afraid of what I know about you? I could hurt you with it. I could make you  _ fear.”

_ Ivy watched him impassively from beyond the glass, feeling nothing more than annoyance at having a wasted session and no further chemical insight.  _

_ “Aren’t you afraid of what I know?” He coaxed her. “Even a little?”  _

_ “Not of you, Scarecrow.” _

_ “Then what?” He murmured, his voice soft. “What do you fear,  _ Poison Ivy?”

_ Ivy saw no reason not to answer him honestly. It wasn’t as if he could ever use such knowledge against her, after all, and there was professional pride that led her to admit, “Not what, but who. Jonathan is far more dangerous than you are, Scarecrow. All you can do to me is prance and posture. He looks. He sees. He  _ knows _.” _

_ A moment passed, and Scarecrow blinked in surprise. Then his entire body jerked like he’d touched a live wire. He looked down, his fingers splaying wide . . . but when he looked up again, he was Crane.  _

_ “Call for Cash, Miss Isley,” he said, in a southern accent so thick it viscerally reminded her of her father.  _ He must be Georgian, _ she thought,  _ Deep South at least,  _ even while calling Aaron to end the interview. _

_ Her last memory of that particular encounter was the intelligence behind his eyes, fixed firmly on her, until Cash knocked him out with a blow to the back of the head. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you know how long it took me to finish this chapter? Upwards of 8 months. That . . . is not good. 
> 
> Just so you know, I do know the definition of ‘missish.’ Joker does as well, and is being kind of weird and playful in using it. If I missed the ballpark on that one, pretend it is an homage to Jane Austen, please. 
> 
> Still couldn’t use the words ‘Dr. Quinn.’ Let’s pretend Hush and Harley are doctors on first name terms with each other. I still just can’t.


	6. Scars That Never Felt a Wound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In questionably important updating news, I am now over half done with Arc 3. I don't know what 2021 is doing to me so far, but I have written more in two months than I have in the last year. So there is that. That's means we'll be on monthly updates for a while, as I juggle this with finishing Code:Beginning, original stuff, and the potential Star Wars thing I've got percolating.
> 
> This is my priority, however, so I will give you that.

#  **Chapter 6: Scars That Never Felt a Wound**

  
  
  


**June 28th 20xx**

**Medical Center, 12:08 PM**

**Day 8**

At long last, it was done. Or at least, as finished a product as anyone could hope for in these conditions. Roman Sionis, better known as Black Mask, signalled for his boys to leave off—an intrepid few had started discussing sanding down the walls, betokening a family background in carpentry, maybe? Trade school? Mask didn’t know and didn’t care. Joker hadn’t asked them to make the place pretty. Just usable. And they had to set up all the seats before dinner.

Joker had ordered him and his men to prepare the large, cavernous space in the lowest level of the Med Center, just below where Bane had once been held, for several days only, by an ambitious Doctor Young as part of his ‘rehabilitation’. Batman had saved him (which Mask thought was pretty ironic, all things considering) but in the ensuing scuffle a portion of the wall had been destroyed revealing an old defunct boiler room, set at least twenty feet below the lowest level of the Med Center. It was this room that Joker wanted ‘renovated.’ And by that, he wanted it almost exactly as it was, albeit with the old ‘doorway’ patched up, and hundreds of seats arrayed around the upper level.

The Pit, or so it would become known, was in essence a modern day gladiatorial arena, and Black Mask knew full well what would happen there. Joker was bored, and so Joker was going to amuse himself in the way he knew best. Men were going to die, soon, and from the capture this morning—Prometheus—it was not going to be relegated to goons only.

The big names were going down as well, and for once in his life, Black Mask could see the writing on the wall as clearly as if it were written in fire.

So, as his men packed up, he called over one of his most trusted men, a large, lumbering man, whose vacant expression hid a sharp intelligence.

“Set up a meeting with your friend—Harvey’s boy,” he murmured, a metallic whisper from behind one of his masks that he’d retrieved from the Warden’s office, where it had been kept like a trophy. “Tell him I’m ready to talk.”

…

…

…

Six hours later, with a naked Prometheus standing over the equally naked body of his fallen foe, Killer Moth, Mask knew he was right. He cheered along with the crowd because he had to, but all the while he was assiduously marking them for their true leanings. At this point it was about evenly split: while a good number were cheering wildly, battle-drunk and enthused, many others were horrified into compliance, counting the days when they might be next. 

Joker, in a parody of the Emperors of Rome, sat in the most ornate chair anyone could find—Warden Sharp’s antique, hand carved oak chair. For the occasion he had found a scrap of red cloth and wore it over his shoulder like a lady’s scarf, and the effect was, as always, ridiculous. A further accessory—Harley Quinn sat on his lap, giggling and kicking her legs with glee. 

He didn’t look too closely at her, not caring what camp she fell into. Whether she was inwardly horrified or wholeheartedly enjoying the proceedings, she was Joker’s creature. There was no hope left for her. She’d go down with Joker’s mad ship.

Prometheus looked up at the Joker, and then, in what must have been a struggle, sneered. Both combatants had been dosed with Scarecrow’s latest concoction—a mixture of uppers, aggression-boosters, a lacing of fear toxin, and inhibition blockers. Joker had gleefully outlined his plan but not the recipe for such a formula, and Mask, for one, hoped it was bound to the island only. He liked drugs, and he certainly liked selling them, but this was a step beyond Ecstasy or Meth. Crane’s creation was madness, and Mask wanted none of it on his side of Gotham. 

For Prometheus to hesitate before the killing blow showed an incredible amount of willpower. Joker laughed delightedly before settling down and comically calling, with outstretched arms, for silence. Dramatically, he extended one long, thin arm. After a moment of deliberation, he jutted his thumb downwards in the modern symbol for death.

Prometheus, who had admitted to killing Victor Zsasz, the Ratcatcher, Humpty Dumpty, and six others in his quest to ‘become’ Batman, roared. Rather than landing the deathblow he fell to his knees, still screaming, holding his head in his hands. But Killer Moth was unconscious, and such mercy would not avail him. When it became clear that Prometheus would not slay his enemy, Joker goggled for a moment, before letting an evil smile creep over his face.

“Bring in the backup plan!” He commanded imperiously, snapping his fingers.

The door leading down to the main level of the pit was slowly shifted aside—it consisted of a huge slab of fallen metal scaffolding, too heavy to be shifted by two or three men, even with enhanced strength—and ten of Joker’s goons marched in, each holding semi’s. This made the first few rows of watchers lean back, nervous about sprays of bullets. Those in the back, however, cheered all the louder.

“Do you dare defy me?” Joker roared theatrically, as his men took up points around the circle.

Prometheus looked up at Joker. He opened his mouth to reply—another amazing moment of coherence while so heavily drugged—but before he could, the leader of the gun-toting clowns opened fire.

Prometheus fell to the ground, dead. A moment later, there was another bark of gunfire and Killer Moth’s body spasmed on the floor, blossoming crimson as blood poured freely. For a moment all was silent, as they wondered just what Joker would do next. 

His answer was to applaud, a slow clap that everyone soon joined in. 

Clapping himself, Black Mask caught Two-Face’s eye from across the makeshift stadium, and nodded.

  
  


**June 28th 20xx**

**The Greenhouse, 6:29 PM**

**Day 8**

Poison Ivy released herself from her babies’ psychic hold with a shudder. She had not been invited to the Joker Games, nor was it feasible for her to go—not with her aloof, uncaring persona—but she was curious as to what, exactly, would happen there. Through her babies she had received a weak transmission, testament to their patchy growth patterns through that part of the island. Toxic substances had been dumped and disposed of through the medical center pipeline, and the boiler room was bricked over fairly completely. Only a few of her hardiest, most dangerous babies could survive there, and they had given her an incomplete, yet evocative picture of what had happened during the newest of Joker’s games.

Prometheus had fought Killer Moth in a death match, she could tell that much. She would know more when the watchers dispersed, and they would talk of it all over the island. But what she did know, from overhearing several of Joker’s goons yesterday, was that Scarecrow had finished his ‘Battle Meth,’ which would induce all afflicted to fight to the death.

Ivy called upon her darlings to enthrone her, and when they grew around her, she delighted in the glide of their leaves over her skin, their clean, earthy smell, and their simple, unthinking devotion. They did not confuse her, not the way humans did. Harley was unfathomable, but so were others—Harvey and his childlike need for his coin, Batman and his rigid sense of discipline, Selina and her capriciousness, Jonathan and his obsession to understand the nature of fear.

No, her plants were much better. The world would be better off choked with them, a return to Edenic paradise with no disgusting, primal, confusing humans to destroy everything . . . yet even as she tried to convince herself, she heard the sound of Harley’s laughter, remembered her fond annoyance at Selina’s antics, and envisioned the look on Jonathan’s face during one of their last sessions, when he’d looked so tired and human and touchable. 

Even in her vision of a perfect world, she could not imagine being truly happy if they were not there.

**_March 12th, 20xx_ **

**_The Green Mile, 2:11 AM_ **

**_(4 months prior to takeover)_ **

_ Two days after their last interview, Crane sent her his ideas on working through one of the larger issues she was facing. Whether it was in apology for having lost control she did not know. Nor did Joan, who passed it along to her, hazard a guess. She made the tweaks, thought she was really getting somewhere . . . but knew it was not quite right. Ivy was beginning to get disheartened. She knew making the formula would not be easy, but she was not looking forward to another meeting with Crane so soon. The ghost of some unfamiliar emotion rose up in her at the thought of meeting him again. If pressed, she would say it was embarrassment. At the time she had felt no compunction about mentioning Jonathan to his alter ego, but after having a week to think it through, she wished she had not.  _

_ She hadn’t even used his  _ title.  _ What had she been thinking? _

_ Still, he was the only one who would know how to move forward with the empathy formula. So she arranged for another session—through Joan, who she was getting less bored with, the more honestly they talked—and waited.  _

_ And waited. _

_ And then, two days before the scheduled date, he escaped. As Scarecrow, he unleashed a toxin over Arkham that killed almost 30 people. Within 24 hours, he was brought back to Arkham by Batman; a gibbering, cringing wreck.  _

_ She remembered watching Batman escort him down to Extreme Incarceration where he would be kept for several weeks of observation. Crane was unconscious, strapped to a gurney, stripped of his scarecrow mask, wearing his straightjacket. Batman had given her an odd look at her interest—he always knew when something was important to her, the ridiculously observant man— and Ivy waited on tenterhooks for Batman to discover and reveal the project . . . but he said nothing. Perhaps Batman, the world’s greatest detective, somehow didn’t know. _

_ In the end the secret was kept. Crane, over his two weeks in the E.I. did not breathe a word about her compound, nor her. At least, according to Joan, who was his psychologist as well as hers, and made sure she was on hand for all his outbursts. According to her, he spent more time raving as Scarecrow in E.I. rather than grumble as Crane.  _

Perhaps he really didn’t ‘tell’ Scarecrow,  _ Pamela mused,  _ for if Scarecrow knew about the serum, wouldn’t he tell someone?  _ That sort of dichotomy was something Joan, or even Harley would appreciate but only confused her. She either knew something or she didn’t. Perhaps she was but a simple plant-mammal hybrid, but that was her way. _

_ Yet more than a month had passed since then, and Crane had been back in his regular routine and cell for weeks. This was the earliest Joan could get them an opportunity to meet and Ivy was beginning to feel some concern that she had dug herself deep into a chemical cul-de-sac. It was so  _ close _ but there were still knots she couldn’t work through. _

_ Crane would know . . . as long as he didn’t escape again! _

_ … _

_ … _

_ This time, it all went off without a hitch. It was quite obviously Crane who slumped into the chair on the other side of her glass dome, and perhaps he felt some lingering embarrassment as well—although that was very likely untrue, nothing more than hopeful thinking—for he began not with a question about her, but about the serum. _

_ “Do you have the printouts, Miss Isley?” _

_ At the moment, only 16 pages of them. She held them up to the glass, and he speed read them with admirable quickness and focus. Barely five minutes of consideration left him with three observations as to several chemical interactions, amounts, and processes that she had been struggling with. Five minutes and he’d solved three larger problems.  _

_ Ivy tried not to feel a twinge of professional jealousy as she settled the papers away, having taken mental note of the areas he’d said to fix. _

_ That done, and with a good twenty minutes of their session to go, he opened the floor with what she had to assume was another gambit to earn her forbearance, or even her trust.  _

_ “Let me apologize for Scarecrow’s impetuosity, Miss Isley,” he said, sounding crisp and clear, unlike his physical appearance. “He is not as interested in the finished product as we are.” _

_ “You admit to having a personal interest in the project?” She asked, remembering Joan’s fears that he would take and twist their project into something even worse than his fear toxin. _

_ He must have caught a glimmer of her apprehensions, for his lips quirked in a hint of a smile. “In an academic fashion only. Do not be alarmed, Miss Isley. I know what will happen to me if I betray you. Arkham holds none of us long, and I do not wish to be your enemy when we get out.” _

_ Ivy nodded, searching his face for some sign of duplicity. A moment later she castigated herself for doing so. What did it matter if he lied to her? She could end him easily, and she did not care about the body count of his victims were he to twist the serum for his own ends. She would be annoyed that Harley would be longer under the Joker’s thumb, but Joan could try again elsewhere. After all their months of collaborating on the project, Ivy felt certain that Joan would not rest until she had helped Harley, one way or another.  _

_ “But if we may begin?” Crane asked, with an arch sense of good manners that reminded her of her father.  _ If only he let his accent through more,  _ Ivy thought.  _ I think I might like to hear that, again.

_ “Of course,” she said, taking a deep breath. _

_ His eyes flickered over her as he noticed. “Today, I’d like to talk about your motivations,” he began. “Why are you making this compound for Harley?” _

_ Ivy scoffed. “Because she is my friend. I care for her, in my own way. And yes, that is possible for me, difficult that may be for you to imagine.” _

_ He nodded. “But why not make it for yourself?” _

_ That made her pause. “I . . . don’t understand.” _

_ He inclined his head as he explained, “Dr. Woodrue was nowhere near the chemist you are, and had not your motivation. If you turned your attention to yourself, you could potentially create something to re-humanize yourself—or, barring that, a way to ease your half-way existence. You speak of caring for Harley. What would you give to touch her freely, without worrying about poisoning her? Or your pheromones influencing her?” _

_ Ivy blinked. She had not expected this—this was blatantly obvious, rather than subtle. To work on a project to render her touch normal, her pheromones inert? What was next, a way to cut her connection with her babies? _

_ With how many enemies she had made, one might as well string her up and call her a piñata. _

_ But there was no point in showing her hand. She had to play along, show him that his clumsy gambit had gone undetected. “Because I can control myself,” she said. “I cannot control the Joker. Nor, when it comes down to it, can I control Harley.” She held up a hand when he opened his mouth. “Yes, I can influence her with my pheromones, but I can’t  _ control  _ her. Not without destroying her. If I did that I would be no different than the  _ Joker,”  _ she spat, her tone turning ugly. “And that would be something I could never come back from.” _

_ Crane went very still, but Ivy had no hope of knowing why. “To you, that is his worst sin?” He asked. “Of all the chaos he has perpetrated, all the lives lost, and you care only for how he treats his girlfriend?” _

_ Ivy saw red. She hadn’t lost control in a long time. She jumped to her feet, her chair kicked back behind her. Stymied by the glass, she paced a few steps to either side, her hands curled into fists. _

_ “Of course you wouldn’t understand,” she hissed. “Brilliant psychologist that you are, you’re still only a man, and men exist to hurt and subjugate women. You can do whatever you want to us, as long as it makes you happy! Never mind the scars you leave behind, or the bruises, or the unwanted children, sexual and physical trauma—” _

_ “Miss Isley—” He said, his voice tight. _

_ “I’m not finished!” She yelled. “I’m not naive,  _ Doctor.  _ I know there are plenty of women whose deepest fear is of being powerless, of being raped. How you must revel in it, knowing you hold that power over them—” _

_ “That is enough!” Crane jumped to his feet, his own chair skidding back behind him. Cash roused himself, but hesitated when it was clear that he would not attack the glass in his fury. _

_ Crane leaned close to the glass, his light eyes wild with emotion. “You are laboring under a severe misapprehension,” he said, and he was so upset his southern accent was heavy, pronounced. “The act of procreation is entirely disgusting to me. Worse yet is when human sexuality is used as a weapon. You find my obsession with fear unnatural? Using the human body and its biological demands as a means of causing pain and of exerting control is, as you say, the most dehumanizing behavioural marker I have ever experienced.” _

_ Ivy stared at him, shocked out of her ire. Experienced?  _ Experienced?

_ He was not done, however. He was wound as tightly as a child’s toy, and words poured from his mouth. “You think I see people’s fear of sex as an exciting aspect of my experiments? Then maybe you would be interested to know that some people are in fact  _ aroused _ by fear, and I  _ stop _ the experiment  _ every single time  _ that happens because I cannot—I refuse to come face to face with such depravity. _

_ “And this from you?” He snapped. “You, who use your own sexuality as the premier tool in your arsenal _ ?  _ The hypocrisy is stunning. The women of my family did that, Miss Isley, and I paid for it all my young life. I have  _ been _ on the receiving side of that kind of abuse, and if one of us is to relate with Harley, I cannot see it being you.” _

_ Ivy’s lips parted as his meaning hit her. Jonathan had been . . . he’d been . . . _

_ He was like her? He’d been hurt like she had been? _

_ His pale face grew paler when he realized what he’d just divulged. He sought for and attained control with no little effort. He settled himself back in his chair, reaching for a semblance of normalcy. “We won’t speak of this again,” he told her, tersely, accent gone. “And if you think I’ll allow you power over me, I will sabotage your project.” _

_ Ivy found that her words came slowly to her lips. “No, I wouldn’t. I could not—I promise you.” _

_ His answering laugh was completely without mirth. “Forgive me for not taking you at your word.” _

_ What was this feeling? Her heart was racing and she was almost afraid, even though there was nothing to fear! “Please,” she ground out. “For Harley, I would do anything.  _ Anything. _ ” _

_ He didn’t meet her eyes, and so she continued with, “You run the sessions, Jonathan. I won’t lose my temper again.” _

_ She sat down in her own chair and watched him steadily, not knowing how to think of him now. How to feel at all. He was different, she knew that much, but her heart was beating too loudly and her mind was too full of static to understand what that meant in the long run. _

_ His gaze flicked up to hers. She didn’t know what her expression revealed, but he must have seen something in it, for the tension in his face relaxed, just a little.  _

_ After a long moment, he sighed. “And I won’t deviate again,” he said, and Ivy was back to not knowing if this had all been planned in order to connect with her, or if he truly had lost control over himself. “Our next meeting will be more . . . orderly.” _

_ Ivy nodded, but didn’t let herself relax until Cash had escorted Crane back to his cell. No matter how many times she told herself he had lied to her just to gain her trust, the possibility of it being the truth remained. It took her a long time to stop trying to imagine just who had hurt Jonathan in that particular way, what had happened to him . . . and whether or not the perpetrator was still among the living. _

_ She hoped she—whoever she was—was not.  _

_ She would vastly prefer her to be deceased.  _

  
  


**June 29th 20xx**

**Medical Center, 6:18 AM**

**Day 9**

Although Hush had told Harley Quinn only yesterday that he was astounded at Edward’s recovery, he was more accurately chagrined. Penelope was an ambitious young hussy, but she was an intelligent one. Salacious as her notes on her formula had been—testing it on Bane was hardly an inspired idea, more trite than anything else—Edward had made great strides in his rehabilitation. By the late hours of day 8, he was able to take a few hobbling steps around the room, and was currently, during the early hours of day 9, squatting down to defecate.

_ That he had not yet removed his pants was almost immaterial, _ Hush thought as he observed. Mess aside— he’d send either Adrian Chen or Sarah Cassidy to clean, as he wanted to consult with Gretchen Whistler on the Joker’s psych profile—this level of motor control was simply astounding. From a man who was lying bloody and broken only days before! And who still could not say his own name!

_ Penelope really was onto something with her TITAN formula,  _ he thought, almost bemused.  _ Who knew? _

  
  


**June 29th 20xx**

**Extreme Incarceration, 9:27 AM**

**Day 9**

When Selina came to, the last rapist had not moved.  _ Oh, so dead then,  _ she thought dully, the world still a little too sharp and clear for her to be comfortable. Her head throbbed with the ghost of a headache, and she tried very hard to not think about Bruce’s reaction. She tried very hard not to think about anything at all.

She was not a squeamish woman, but she did not want to touch the corpses. She hadn’t had to do that since she was a kid, half-living on the streets. Poking dead bodies had never been her idea of fun, more a necessity, because what if the person who had robbed and killed them had missed something? She could pawn it and eat, and that had been the order of her life, for a time. 

There was one thing she knew for certain. Jervis’s short-lived career as her newest drug dealer was absolutely coming to a close. After she got out of this cell, she was never touching anything inhibitive again. Drugs, alcohol . . . not even a goddamned cigarette. Nothing. Nada. She was off the hard stuff, because she had just killed three men, and she still couldn’t feel guilty for it.

And then, because she couldn’t bear to think of it any longer, “Hey, Vic? Know what day it is?”

“God in Heaven!” He exclaimed, in what had to be the most German of all responses he’d given her yet. “Dare I hope that you’ve finally come back to your senses?”

“Hey, better me than them,” she quipped. “But uh, seriously. Day? Date? Time? Anything?”

“Morning,” Victor said after a moment. “We’ve not yet been fed. 9 days since Joker’s takeover, at least by my measure. Selina, are you . . . all right?”

Bruce would never, ever believe that Victor Fries was expressing concern for her. This truly was a day of wonders. “Well, I’m never taking drugs again. Probably gonna lay off alcohol, as well.”

“Physically, Selina,” he retorted, his frustration evident. 

Oh, right. Injuries and all that. Selina checked herself over, wincing at the long gash down her arm. Thankfully the bleeding had stopped, but there was no way to clean or sterilize the wound. In this environment, the question was not  _ if _ infection would set in, but  _ when. _

“Healthy enough, Vic,” she called back. “Got a scratch, but the bleeding has stopped.”

“Is there anything on the bodies you can use?” He called back. “For injuries or escape?”

“ _ Or even just to eat,” _ she muttered, her stomach growling on cue. Swallowing thickly, she thought of her past self—young, foolhardy, slightly more innocent than she was today—and forced herself to check the bodies.

Her efforts were not without their dubious rewards. One had a granola bar in his pocket, from Whistler’s not-so-secret stash. Selina ate it quickly, closed her eyes against the sugar rush, and tucked the wrapper back in his pants pocket. He also had an orange jumpsuit jacket, which, although not the cleanest garment she’d ever donned, was warm enough to tempt her. It took her a good amount of time and struggle to get it off of him—his limbs had stiffened—but when she did, she put it on. Another had a flask of whisky, which Selina wedged in the waistband of her pants—while she wasn’t going to drink it, it was the closest thing to an antiseptic she was going to get. Other than that there was little that was useful. The knives she had already collected, obviously, but unless she was going to take their shoelaces as well—and she was not that far gone,  _ never _ that far gone to consider what she could do with them—they were pretty much bare.

_ Not even a condom,  _ Selina thought with a shudder.  _ Fuck. Fucking fuck, I hate them.  _

After the bodies were thoroughly searched, she leaned back on her heels and remembered Victor. “Knives and whisky only, Vic,” she called out. “I can use the whiskey to clean the wound, but—”

The familiar sound of the lockdown doors opening cut her off. Someone was coming, and Selina paled. “Shit shit shit,” she muttered, casting her eyes about the cell in a desperate hope that a hiding place would reveal itself to her. She needed to hide at least one knife, because otherwise how was she going to gut Wesker the next time he came to feed her?

She was trying to shove one into the corner of her mattress when the ladder leading to Victor’s cell was activated. Selina glanced out her window to see Wesker throw a couple of sandwiches and a water bottle to Victor. On the main platform behind him stood the Joker, and several of his goons.

There was no way to hide the weapons—the mattress was too thick to saw through without leaving an obvious sign, so Selina improvised. She held both knives behind her back and waited, tense, on the balls of her feet in the center of her cell, until her own ladder activated. She knew they’d come to gloat. Joker always did. 

The ladder activated with a squeal of metal, and Selina’s heart rate increased. They were coming. She’d have to do this all again, fight and kill again, but she’d do it for the hope of freedom. Hell, she’d do it just for the hope of living through one more day!

“Ohhhhh Sellliiiiinaaaaa,” the Joker sing-songed as he pranced up the ladder. “I’ve come to check on you—” He cut off when he caught sight of her, standing tall in her cell, surrounded by the two bodies.

“Well, well,” he tutted. “I must say, I’m impressed. And in hindsight, not too surprised, either. You really do earn your moniker. How many lives are you down now? 4? 5? 6? No matter. I’m sure I’ll get lucky eventually!”

Selina said nothing, waiting, and willing him to enter the cell alone.

The Joker snapped his fingers and two of his goons surged around him, opening the door and removing the first body without further command. The third held a gun on her as his two fellows removed the second body.

“How did it feel?” The Joker asked her, voice dropping down into something that could be described, with an inward shudder, as intimate. “To kill again, I mean. By my count it’s been some time. Was it as big a rush as you remembered? There’s just something so . . .  _ personal _ about killing someone at close range.” He brought a hand to his heart. “I  _ do _ prefer wide, overarching anarchy, of course, but I don’t begrudge you your moments of  _ pleasure _ .”

She needed one of the goons to step in front of her to block the spray of bullets. Just for a moment, then she could take the goon hostage, or even just kick him towards the man with the gun. Then she could rush the Joker, or even simply throw the knife—

“Boss, they woulda been armed,” one of the men noticed. 

The Joker sneered as he looked at her through the cell’s aperture. The goon still inside the cell with her did a little hop skip out, and suddenly, all Selina’s options boiled down to this—all she had left was herself . . . and the Joker’s obsession with Batman.

Time to gamble. Selina withdrew one of the knives, and in a smooth motion, placed it at her own throat. 

The Joker burst out into laughter. “Taking care of the problem yourself, Selina? How good of you! Sure, go ahead! Slice your own pretty throat! That saves me the bullets!”

“Selina, no!” Victor cried out. “Don’t do it!”

“Why not, Vic?” She called out, but not too loudly. “What am I waiting for? Wesker already said what he was gonna do to me. I’m not waiting around for that.”

Wesker squeaked, and Scarface yelled, “She’s lying, boss! Dames always lie!”

Joker narrowed his eyes at her. “What’s your  _ game,  _ Cats? What exactly do you think you’ll get out of this?”

“Power,” she answered. “‘Right now, I hold all the power. Just for a moment. And then, yeah, it’ll be gone, but you won’t have it either. That’s enough for me.”

Selina never claimed to have any inside knowledge of the Joker. Personally, she found him incomprehensible, and his current lack of expression unsettled her. But she knew one thing: that he was obsessed with Bruce. And as long as she was important to him, there was a chance her gamble might play out.

She swallowed thickly, feeling the cool iron against her throat, and tried not to think about how bleeding out on the floor of her cell wouldn’t hurt if she used enough strength with the slice. 

“No, no, no,” the Joker finally said, loudly enough for all to hear. “I don’t think I can allow that. You’re not dying until Bats gets here. It would mess up my  _ plan.  _ So, here’s the deal. You kick those knives over to me—both of them, yessss, I wasn’t born yesterday—and I  _ won’t _ drop Victor’s cell down into the abyss. If you don’t . . . well, I’ve heard it’s a long way down. He’s about to find out.”

Selina froze. She had forgotten about Victor. There was potent silence from his cage, even though he’d had to have heard every word. 

“Goddamn it, Joker,” she gritted out. “What do you  _ want?” _

“What do I ever want?” He replied in turn, an enigmatic look on his face. “To have some  _ fun.” _

After a long, tense moment, Selina broke. She dropped the knife to the floor and kicked it over to the Joker. A moment later, she did the same with the blade in her left hand. 

“Much better,” the Joker crooned, stooping to pick up the weapons. “And don’t think for a moment I’m going to forget that she was given access to these knives, Weskie,” he called over his shoulder. “Sloppy on your part.  _ Very _ sloppy.”

Even Scarface was quiet at that. 

“Well, I’ll just be going, then,” the Joker said. Before he reached the door he hesitated. “Oh, but before I forget, a bit of world news for you. We’ve got a new president! Lex Luthor . . . I’ve read all about his interesting work in Metropolis-That-Was. Should be an exciting term—his first act was to call for all supers to be put to death! Three executions already. Very bold move for public television.”

He glanced back at her, smiling broadly at the sight of her shock. “Whaddya think, Cats? Was Bats one of them? Is that why he didn’t come for you?”

_ “ _ Batman isn’t dead,” she said through numb lips. Her mind was working frantically. Three supers dead? Luthor president? No, no, none of this could be true. He had to be lying. He had to be. 

But why else would the island have been left alone this long? Even if Batman was . . . busy, Commissioner Gordon should have been here by now!

“Then maybe he just doesn’t love you very much. Has better women—I mean  _ things _ to do.”

Joker always knew exactly where to twist the knife. Bruce’s brooding masculinity had left a trail of broken hearts in his wake, and while he always came back to her, there was a part of her that worried he’d find someone better. Younger. Newer. Less nebulously aligned. 

Not that she’d ever let the Joker see her insecurity. “Or maybe he has more faith in my abilities than you do,” she rejoined.

“Oh, I don’t know about thaaaaaaat. I know him better than you, Seliiiiina. I  _ define _ him.”

Selina tipped up her chin. “Yeah, well. He doesn’t define  _ me. _ ” __

The Joker narrowed his eyes at her. In a move that demonstrated his unearthly quickness, he lunged across the cell and smacked her across the face before she could move. She was so surprised she didn’t even attack as he darted back. She simply watched him with slitted eyes, and tucked her chin down, ready for the next attack. 

For a moment it looked like he would do more, and his goons shifted forward. But then he held up a hand and sighed dramatically. “Clearly I’m going to have to work harder with you, toots. I thought breaking you would be easier, and I suppose it’s to your credit that it’s not. And I’m going to have to start thinking about what to do with you if Bats doesn’t show . . . oh, I know! I’ll give you to Croc!” 

It took all of Selina’s control not to cry out. She shivered, but thought that was warranted.

Joker made a show of stroking his chin and looking concerned. “Oh, but you’re not quite tender enough for him yet. Give it a couple days without food—water once a day tho, I’m not  _ heartless— _ and I bet you’ll be ready.”

Selina wanted to wail, to cry, but she did neither. She had not a prayer against Killer Croc, but as long as she got out of the cell, there was hope. As long as they didn’t drug her too badly, she might even be able to escape!

The Joker nodded, decided. “Boys!” He called out as he slammed the cell door shut behind him. “Let’s go! I’ve got a skype call in twenty minutes. Have to thank the old man for my cushy new position,” he ended in a mutter, which Selina doubted anyone other than herself could hear. 

At the moment she didn’t much care. She was too busy trying not to fall apart.

  
  
  


**June 29th 20xx**

**Tunnels, 11:18 AM**

**Day 9**

In the end, it took two days and three aborted attempts to reach the Warden’s Office. Their path led directly to a trap door into his office, and thus they had to be exceedingly careful. Turned back by the sounds of people moving within, and resolving to form a backup plan in case they were followed—thus revealing the existence of the tunnel system beneath the island—they bided their time.

On the fourth try, however, they had a clear shot at his office. There was no one within when they opened the trap door that opened at the back of the small closet behind his desk. Once they pulled themselves through the detritus in the closet, Javier and Brian went point, leaving Cash and Taylor to guard her. They rushed in, fanning out to take their defensive positions while Joan searched frantically through Sharp’s things.

“Hurry it up, woman,” Aaron muttered, flicking his hook against his thigh. Brian and Javier lifted up their semi’s and faced the doorway. They were the main protection for this mission, as Aaron’s hold on a semi-automatic was questionable with his hook. He was tasked to protect her, no matter what. Brian and Javier were the main line of defense, and from their grim expression took their mission seriously. 

Unlike her time in her own office, Joan could feel the tension eating at her, like a clock ticking down. The twenty minutes she took to rummage through his things felt like an eternity. She took no care to be neat, orderly, or discreet. They didn’t care if anyone knew they’d been there, as they’d planned to block off the tunnels as soon as they left. This was the only tunnel that led to the main morass of them, and they’d already rigged a ‘cave in’ just before this arm connected to the whole. As soon as the last of them got past the barricade—made of loose stones, heavy crates, and by weakening the tunnel integrity closer to the warden’s office—they would trigger the minor detonation, the catalyst caused by an explosive agent Aaron had procured from God knew where, and then it wouldn’t matter if their trail was found.

They were hoping it would not come to that, of course, but they were taking no chances. 

Joan wiped away a thin sheen of sweat—it was hot in the office, as compared to the cool dark of the tunnels—and frantically flipped another manilla folder full of printed sheets. What she saw there made her suck in a breath. “Got it!” She whispered, her eyes flicking over the lines. 

“Where is it?” Taylor whispered, even as Brian and Javier relaxed.

“Old section of the Med Center, in the air ducts of Harley’s old office slash cell,” she murmured, tearing the pertinent papers out of the folder. “I can’t believe Crane didn’t find it.” She shoved the paper at him. “Take it, and get back to the bunker!”

Taylor had been selected as the runner for this mission not only because he was one of the fastest guards, but because he had an unexpected natural affinity for the tunnels—outline a path for him once, and he could run it in almost full darkness. He grabbed the papers, stuffed them in his pocket, and then opened the trapdoor that led back to the tunnels.

No sooner had he dropped down when the front door flew open. Everyone froze as in walked Warden Sharp. Joan was so shocked she actually thought _ , Oh, I am so fired,  _ before clarity returned.

“ _ Clayface, _ ” Aaron hissed, yanking Joan behind him.

Brian and Javier paled. Their guns were largely useless against him, and even if they weren’t, there was a gang of at least fifteen men standing just behind him in the hallway.

With a pomposity that matched the real Sharp, Clayface bowed to Joan. “Leave Leland  _ alive,  _ boys. Joker wants her specifically. As for the rest . . .” His voice turned dark. “ _ Kill them.” _

Brian and Javier opened fire, trying to kill the men standing behind Clayface, but he absorbed many of the bullets. Shedding his Sharp simulacra, he reverted to his humanoid clay form, with wide, grinning mouth and gleaming yellow eyes. Aaron shoved Joan down towards the still-open door of the escape hatch, and she nearly slid down it. Fear made any sense of pain obsolete. The world was nothing but the bark of gunfire, Aaron’s hands shoving her down, and the giddy hope for salvation in the dark maw of the trapdoor. 

Joan fell through the hatch with a graceless thump, too afraid to call out as she fell. She barely had time to roll aside before Aaron came hurtling down after her. He pulled the trapdoor shut after him, and it was full dark.

“Run,” he breathed, and before she could do so on her own he began pulling her after him. 

She stumbled after him, blind and terrified and utterly reliant on him. “Brian. Javier!”

“Keep going, Joan!”

For several moments more they plunged forward in darkness, only able to find their way by sticking out their free arms in front of them, hoping they didn’t run right into a wall. Then, light filtered in behind them.

Clayface and his men had found the trapdoor.

They were being chased, but they could dimly see. “Barricade!” Aaron ordered, running faster. 

Joan understood. They had to get to the barricade otherwise all was lost.

She could hear the men behind them now, calling out to them, telling her what they were going to do to her. Apparently Clayface’s men did not care for what the Joker wanted. They had their own agenda.

Aaron pushed her along faster and she could hardly breathe, she was so afraid. She stumbled along in partial darkness, so focused on her goal that she had not realized how far she’d come. She almost shrieked when she banged her hand on a crate, but thankfully Aaron was more aware. He shoved her forward past the barricade, and took a few precious moments to fumble for the trip switch.

She turned back just in time for him to trigger it. There was a moment of stillness when the first of Clayface’s men came into view. Then, there was a loud  _ crack _ as the tunnel collapsed inwards. There was just enough light to see the expressions of two men as the walls began falling, throwing up their arms up to stave off the inevitable. Then, there was only the cacophony of sound and movement of the cave-in, and Aaron’s hoisting her up.

“Go, Joan!” He yelled, and with his help, she did. She made it at least ten steps, which was more than she could have done on her own, but then the ground beneath her feet gave way, and she fell into darkness.

…

…

…

Had Joan any desperate, fragmented thoughts upon falling, they would have been of her inevitable demise. Thus she was slightly surprised that, upon opening her eyes, she was not in fact dead. Nor was she terribly wounded. Bruised, yes, and she had a headache to beat the band, but upon a careful moment of stretching, found that all her limbs were well intact. 

She had no idea where she was, however. Eventually, by feeling her way in the dark she determined she was under some kind of overhang, as there was rock only a few feet above her head. How long this platform stretched she had no idea, but she assumed she had fallen into some cavern, hole, or pitfall, because otherwise why would the floor have collapsed?

Only when she realized she was not in imminent danger of falling to her death did she think  _ Aaron. _

She sucked in a horrified breath, only to begin choking immediately. The dust had settled, but was still thick in the air. Her effort to calm herself was so encompassing  that she did not hear the minute shift of gravel against stone, betokening something or someone moving, until their hand fell on her back. 

“Wahhh!” She screeched, albeit quietly. She tried to throw herself backwards, but the hand tightened on her shoulder.

“Joan! Jesus, Joan, it’s me! Calm down!”

The voice was as familiar to her as it was welcome. Overwhelming relief filled her one moment, and frightened anger the next. “Jesus Christ!” She said, tears choking her voice. “Aaron! I thought you were—I didn’t know where—What—How—You—!”

Strong arms gathered her close, pulling her sideways until she was in his lap. “I have never seen you speechless before, Joan,” he said to her, his voice tight. “I have to say, this is not the moment I had envisioned.”

She could take no more. Nine days of holding strong, her first firefight, and the loss of Brian and Javier she could stand, if just, but not the man she loved holding her in his arms. From the sound of his voice, on the brink of tears. So she did it for him, bursting into tears and shaking in his hold, at first in shock and fear, and then in grief and mourning. For a long time she surrendered herself to the strength of her emotions. The only thing keeping her from breaking down entirely was Aaron’s hold, the steady rise and fall of his chest against her cheek, and his grumbled, awkward reassurances that all would eventually be all right.

It took her a long time to come to herself. Even after she stopped weeping, she drifted along in an unthinking haze until she realized that Aaron had graduated from patting her back with his hand, to slowly stroking the back of her neck. His large hand cupped it entirely, and the surprising pleasure of it made her shiver.

“You cold?” He asked, shifting.

She shook her head, feeling the give of his security jacket against her cheek. “I’m fine,” she murmured, even though she was patently not. “Keep going.”

She was too far gone to care about propriety. She needed comfort, and she needed it from him. Afterwards, she would regret it. For now . . .

After a moment of hesitation, he did so. His wide, calloused fingertips traced paths along her neck, slipping through the short strands of her chemically straightened hair, curving over her ears. Joan shivered again and realized she was gripping his shirt in both hands. That was awkward, and her hands were beginning to cramp. She released her hold and slowly, haltingly—for she could not forget that he was married, even now—allowed her hands to reach around him, and meet at his back.

_ We are now holding each other,  _ Joan thought, clinically awkward in the face of such unexpected closeness. She had never allowed herself to dream of him much, and would never have imagined such dire circumstances that led to it. He gripped her more tightly, hoisting her up so her cheek came close to his for just a moment, before she slipped back down.

“Joan,” he said quietly, and the gravity of it worried her. 

Before he could continue, she interrupted him with, “I’m sorry about Brian and Javier. I know nothing I can say will make it better, but Aaron, I’m so sorry.”

That stopped him in his tracks. His breath hitched and he lowered his head so that it fell to her shoulder. Joan pulled herself up to better support him, and went so far as to think of stroking the back of  _ his _ neck when he picked his head up again.

They were only inches apart. Even in the darkness, Joan could just make out the jut of his nose, the curve of his mouth. The expression in his dark eyes was impossible for her to see, let alone read, but the meaning in his posture, his closeness, his unwillingness to move away was clear.

_ He is going to kiss me,  _ she thought, with an attending flush of feeling that could be termed girlish.  _ Oh Lord save me, he is going to put his mouth on mine and I am not going to stop him. _

“Joan,” he said again, his voice a murmur in the dark. 

She licked her lips. She was going to say something— _ yes,  _ or  _ Aaron,  _ or,  _ just kiss me you big galoot,  _ but before she could, there was the sound of rock scraping over stone, a beam of light that reflected over the rockface to the east of them, and a quiet, but familiar voice calling out,

“Can anyone hear me? Is anyone there?”

It was Eddie Burlow, and never had he been worse timed.

“We’re here, Eddie,” Aaron said, his voice gravelly and, dare she hope it, disappointed?

A moment later, the light from his flashlight beamed down over them, and Eddie’s kindly face popped out from over the rockface above them. 

“Oh thank goodness! We didn’t know what happened—we heard the tunnel collapse and found Taylor, but when no one else came back . . . Are either of you injured?”

“We’re fine, Eddie,” Joan said, slowly removing herself from Aaron’s hold. “But Brian and Javier . . .”

She took Eddie’s hand as he reached down to help pull her from their ledge. After a moment of exertion she cleared the lip, and was back in the tunnel proper.

“We figured,” Eddie said quietly, before turning back to Aaron. “We hoped, but . . .” He grunted as he helped Aaron up off the ledge. 

“I’m just glad the two of you are all right,” he finished. “But we need to get back to the bunker. They’ll know about the tunnels, now, and will undoubtedly look for other ways in.”

“Lead the way, Eddie,” Aaron said, still subdued. Joan followed after the younger guard, but couldn’t help but look back once at Aaron before the light from the flashlight was directed back onto the path. Her eyes widened when they met his, for he was no longer looking at her like she was something important to protect, or his wife’s best friend. He was looking at her the way a man did when he wanted a woman.

Joan shivered and walked on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I caught all of them, but I accidentally wrote “Killer Mother” instead of Killer Moth at least twice. V. exciting moment of editing, there.
> 
> I’m taking some liberties with Crane’s upbringing, in introducing some element of sexual abuse in his history. I feel as if I have seen/read this somewhere before, but I doubt it is DC canon (unless it is, then never mind all this). 
> 
> OH AND YOU THOUGHT LELAND’S FORMULA WAS TITAN, DIDN’T YOU. BWAHA WHAT A RED HERRING. I feel so clever, go me. :P

**Author's Note:**

> Even just writing the words ‘total recall’ next to each other makes me inordinately happy. While Schwarzenegger films generally tend to fill me with glee of varying levels, that particular film is in a league of its own. 
> 
> So I was going to update earlier, but then COVID 19 took over. My work schedule got a bit nuts but here is an update to help fill up some quarantined hours. Please be safe and stay home, everybody. Do the right thing for the sick and the elderly and the frightened. My thanks to everyone who is, even at expense to themselves.
> 
> Love,  
> Myth


End file.
